Things I Thought I Understood
by lazzyk
Summary: Elizabeth and John meet in Afghanistan in the middle of a war. But once John is killed in an ambush and Elizabeth is discharged because of her injuries, she decides to carry out the one thing John asked of her: take care of his bizarre flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, if he didn't make it home. Sherlock/OC. (we'll see how this goes, eh?)
1. Chapter 1

**So, yeah. First ever OC/Sherlock story. Been putting it off because they're _so difficult_ to write correctly. It's so easy to get these things _all wrong_ and I love the books, (BBC) show, and characters too much to disgrace them. Hope it's not a massive disappointment, I hope you like it, and I hope I did the characters justice. Oh, and gross sobbing ensued when I wrote the first half of this chapter, because reasons.**

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I thought I understood it, the war. I was "fighting for Queen and country, bringing salvation to oppressed peoples of different nations." and "gaining honor and integrity by stitching up our wounded soldiers on the battlefield." And, for a long time, that was enough for me. It was satisfying, it was exciting, it was fast-paced and quick-thinking.

The war, as a matter of fact, was how I met John Watson, the chief medical officer for my division. The man was extraordinarily good at his job; he could have a long-gone soldier rushed into his OR, and within an hour spit him back out, grinning, saying, "He'll be ready in a few weeks." and we all regarded him as a miracle worker. In reality, however, John Watson was a miracle himself. He had been living the (boring) civilian life in London for the past few years after having his left shoulder thoroughly shot to bits, which compromised the motor control in his hand.

But allegedly something amazing happened; something so amazing that he was back in Afghanistan two years later, his hand and shoulder completely normal and functioning, and he was putting broken men back together.

We officially met in the OR when I dragged in a child civilian who was losing blood faster than we could replenish it. John scooped him up, stitched a leaking artery and set a broken leg, while I acted as his assistant, even though I was a medical doctor myself. But in emergencies, you do whatever is required of you, and in that moment, I was required to pass John clamps and sponges and the like, so that's what I did. I was his assistant for over twenty-five surgeries that day.

And after that particularly grueling shift ended, we stayed up talking over a bottle of whiskey and a cigarette. "My best mate back home kicked his smoking habit a few months before I was deployed again." he said after taking a long drag. "Wonder what he'd say if he saw me."

I took the small, white death stick, put it between my lips, and inhaled the hot smoke. It burned my lungs and nose, but I tried not to make a face. "He'd probably say you look like hell," I smiled ruefully, passing it back to him. John laughed in agreement and promptly smashed the cigarette into the sand. "He'd actually tell me the prognosis of every single man I worked on today." he replied, his eyes distant. They returned almost instantly, and he added, "He would also say he asked me for milk an hour ago."

"Flatmate then?" I inquired lightly.

"Yes. He's quite extraordinary."

"So you two are domestic then?"

"Wha - ? No, no, god no. I seriously don't understand why everyone thinks that."

"Well you can't just go around talking about him with goo-goo eyes!" I joked. It was slightly true though from what I'd just seen, but I figured they were just close. Everyone had that friend they just clicked with and got along with really well (mine was blown up in an IED).

And that was the night my friendship began with John Watson. We would talk at mess hall, between shifts at the med bay, and at night when the world was so quiet you wouldn't even suspect a war was going on. We'd make crude jokes and share private thoughts; we almost ended up snogging once after a particularly difficult day (we lost five men in three hours, despite surgeries and hours of CPR, and we were running off of caffeine and adrenaline and horror), but it never led to anything more. But tonight was different. John was different. At first I thought it was because of the transfer orders we both had received that afternoon, but after a few moments of silence, I could tell it was something more than having to move out at 0600 tomorrow.

"Can I tell you something?" he asked softly, shifting so that he was lying on his back. He liked looking at the stars on a clear night, because there were just so many of them out here. They just went on and on and on, never ending, and it was sometimes the only thing that reminded me that someone somewhere had no idea there was so much bad happening.

"Of course."

"I think I'm going to die."

"We're all going to die, John."

"No, I mean here. I don't think I'm going to make it back to London, Liz. I don't know why, I just… feel it." he breathed, his brows furrowing until they met in the middle. My chest instantly ached.

"Don't talk like that," I began curtly. "You've got a crazy, brilliant flatmate waiting on you to pay half of the rent, remember? All of those adventures you told me about."

John usually would have smiled or chuckled to himself, muttering, "Crazy bastard" under his breath. Tonight, he didn't. Instead, he bit his lip and exhaled heavily through his nose. "Yeah, yeah I do. God, what is Sherlock going to do without me? He can barely keep the flat from being destroyed by his experiments - dear lord, the fridge probably has body parts…"

"John," I warned, wanting to change the subject. Losing your mates was always a real possibility out here, a daily occurrence, but if you dwelled on it, you'd lose your mind.

"You could…" he turned to me suddenly, his eyes careful and calculating, but warm and oh so characteristically John. "You could… move in with him, if I don't make it." he suggested.

"John," I exclaimed. "Look, I know it's the twenty-first century and men and women live together, but what you're asking isn't that simple. I don't even know his name, or anything about him."

"Liz, he needs a doctor and someone with a strong moral compass. And someone with thick skin, which I know you've got. And, despite what he's going to say, he needs a friend."

"What, you're his_ only_ friend?" I asked incredulously.

"Kind of."

"John, I'm sorry. You know I'd do anything for you, I'd even die for you, but this is just completely…"

"Insane?" he smiled. "Yeah, it is. And it's exactly what you'll need once your tour is over. Adjusting to civilian life isn't easy, trust me. I've got a journal full of notes in my nightstand at the flat, it would tell you how to deal with his mood swings and everything. And his name is Sherlock Holmes," he paused, smiling a bit more. "And the address is 221B Baker Street."

I stared at him for a full minute without saying anything. "That last sentence did absolutely _nothing_ for your case here." I said, pursing my lips in a tight line.

John rolled over, and sighed. "Yeah, you're right. I'm probably just paranoid. Lack of sleep and all. I'm going to turn in - be ready to go at 0600."

* * *

We were ambushed. There was blood everywhere, and everything I tried wasn't working. The scent of burning oil, blood, and twisted metal was taking a backseat to the sound of gunfire and shouting. Mostly the shouting, especially coming from the man below me whose chest was literally shredded open from IED shrapnel. I was picking out what I could, trying my best to ignore the spray of bullets that seemed to be getting closer.

"Shit," I muttered, my hands shaking as the tweezers slipped from my grip and into the bloody mess of the soldier's chest. "Leave it, you can't get it all out." a voice yelled above me: John.

"Then give me enough time to stitch him up." I called back, pulling out the black wire from my pack.

"I don't think we have enough…"

"We should…"

"There's a lot of them coming in…"

"John, shut up and let me -"

* * *

Two days later, I woke up in a dusty hospital wing, my throat scorching and dry. My eyes were gummy and sore, mucus crusted in the corners. There was a dull throbbing just below the hollow my my neck; my ribs screamed when I took a deep breath. My fingers felt dry and thick, coated with something (probably dried blood) I couldn't be bothered to check. A low ache in my back made me try to slide onto my side, but as soon as I moved, the spot high on my sternum wailed loud enough that it ripped an animalistic cry from my sandy throat, and sent nurses crowding over my bed.

They said I was lucky to be alive. They said I was a miracle, that it was a miracle I managed to crawl back so someone would find me even though I had a bullet lodged in my chest. And I nodded shallowly, my eyes settling on the ceiling above me as I thought I understood the gravity of what they were saying. But once the sun set and nurses came less frequently so I could sleep, I felt hot, stinging water on my face.

No one tells you your friends are dead immediately. In fact, they usually don't mention your friends at all for the first few days if they're dead. If your friends survived with you, you'd know as soon as you were conscious enough to understand words. No one ever mentioned John.

It took me a few weeks before I was healthy enough to return home, discharged from my duties as an army medic. I spent countless, endless hours lying in an uncomfortable bed that someone else could be using, staring at the ceiling as everything I tried to forget played over and over on repeat. John was dead because of me, because I decided to be a _her__o_ and try to save someone who was beyond saving; I should have been found lying in the hot sand, my body unrecognizable from the ammunition that pierced my skin. I should not have been allowed to live when other people were so much more deserving.

Each and every time the medic would make his round (his name was Brook, and he was a small, skittish man), he would look at my chart and beam at me, explaining that I was getting stronger and healing up 'quite nicely'. Each and every time he would recite the nauseating news to me, I would roll my head away from him; I could practically feel his stare change from overly animated to quietly solemn. As a medic, I had seen this behavior before in soldiers who had survived an accident but their mates had not, and I thought I understood it, but until now I had never _understood _it.

Because until now, I had never understood that surviving something so terrible could leave you with so many open wounds that were never really allowed to scab over. Every hour, every minute, every second tore the makeshift stitches out again, letting it ooze and bleed until you didn't think it could _possibly_ bleed anymore. But each day, it got a little easier to sew them back up again, even if hatred for yourself became the thread. I repeated this endless cycle of tearing and sewing until finally, _finally_ they shipped me on a plane to Heathrow.

By the time the flight attendant had taken my drink order, I found myself finishing up the process. I had sewed all of the wounds back up so as not to bleed or disturb the innocent and make them uncomfortable, because they will _never_ understand, but that's not their fault. The inside of my body was littered with big, white gashes and lumps of scar tissue (the biggest one was a knot on the top of my sternum, just below the hollow of my throat, which a friendly little bullet had made) that no one was able to see. And the longer I sat there, waiting for my plastic cup of lukewarm, spring water to arrive, the more these lumps began to merge together and settle low in my chest, simmering in a toxic stew that seemed to radiate so strongly that I was surprised I wasn't glowing or that the other passengers couldn't see it. And by the time I had landed in Heathrow, far away from the hot Afghan sand, the toxic lump in my chest had hardened until it hardened all of me.

Located two inches below my heart, was hate.

My mother was waiting for me just beyond airport security, her face already wet with tears as her dark eyes scanned the crowd of arriving passengers coming out from the gates. My duffle was slung over my shoulder, my uniform was slightly crumpled from the hours of sitting in economy, my hair managed to stay back in the tight bun I was so accustomed to wearing it in. I walked right up to her, expecting for her to wail and throw her arms around me in the dramatic fashion she enjoyed, but instead she glanced up at me and said, "Sorry, you must have the wrong person, I'm waiting for my daughter."

"Mum," I said through a tight jaw. "It's me."

"Elizabeth?" her voice sounded surprised, as if everything she couldn't believe what I had said. "My god, you look... well, you've just lost a bit of weight. I didn't recognize you darling, I'm so sorry..." she laughed and pulled me into a tight hug, her face buried in my shoulder. "It's wonderful to have you home." she murmured into my uniform, attempting to slide my bag off of my shoulder. My fingers tightened around the strap and I pulled away. "I've got it, it's fine." I said hurriedly.

My mother's eyes softened, and her jaw set. I'm sure she had been reading dozens of articles and blogs online on exactly how to deal with returning soldiers with PTSD and a toxic lump in their chest - neither of which anyone could visibly see, therefore found it even more of a taboo subject. "Okay, okay. Dad's in the car, let's not keep him waiting. How was the flight?"

_It was terrible. It was dull. I kept wishing the engines would fail and - _"It was fine. How's Sophie?" I inquired, switching the subject to the ten-year-old black cat that was waiting for us back at home.

"She's great, actually. Had kittens a few weeks ago. They're simply adorable; oh, there's two black ones, a grey one, and a few white ones. We're not sure how the white and grey ones happened, but - " _But then again, you're not an expert on feline genetics _"Then again, I'm not an expert on feline genetics."

Mum laughed at her own 'joke', and I gave her a genuine smile, because it was nice to hear her laugh. It was unbearably frustrating that people didn't understand what was really happening in parts of the world, but at the same time it was unbelievably relieving. My parents would never know the crunch of sand in your teeth after a sandstorm, or the permanent scold of the sun, or acquire the calluses guns left on your hands.

I stayed with my parents for a few weeks; people came in and out of the house like it was a giant revolving door, all wanting to see me, even though they shouldn't, and the toxic lump two inches below my heart seemed to grow more and more. Still, I humored everyone by smiling and trying to make conversation over dinner (over coffee, over dessert, over lunch, over afternoon tea) with those who stopped by. But it was a tiring business, and at the end of the day I was exhausted. It was draining, trying to act interested in the ordinary (boring) lives of everyone, because I couldn't relate to Cousin Emily's new diet or Uncle Hugh's job promotion, or anything else. I wasn't up-to-date with the pop culture, or what Doctor Who episode had everyone in emotional distress (apparently it had something to do with statues that didn't allow you to blink).

John was right when he told me that adjusting to civilian life was harder than I ever anticipated. You just didn't know what to do anymore. John had never mentioned anything about nightmares, but those were greeting me more nights than not; I would go to bed exhausted, and wake up in the throes of an anxiety attack, draining all the energy I had gained and causing the knotted scar on my chest to throb.

But after a few weeks, things around the house had settled down, and I was finally able to carry out the last request John had of me. I discussed with my parents the idea of me moving into a flat sometime soon and getting a job, and they seemed more than eager to assist. So one evening when Mum was out playing Bingo with her friends and Dad was catching up with his at the pub, I typed in an address to Google Maps, and then headed out the door to hail a cab.

"221B Baker Street." I told the cabbie as I shut the car door. He nodded, turned on his signal, and pulled off from the curb. I stared blankly out the window as London whizzed by me, completely oblivious to who I was or what was happening. The world kept on turning, no matter what happened. A contented hum escaped my throat.

"Baker Street." the cabbie said, pulling up. I got out, paid him (with a generous tip, because I couldn't be bothered to deal with change tonight), and walked up to the black door and rang the bell before I could change my mind. Soft footsteps shuffled just beyond the door, and an ambiguous silhouette transformed as it neared the door. An old woman in her night robe and slipper swung the door open, her eyes bright and sweet. I must've had the wrong address.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I must be mistaken - " I began, my cheeks burning.

"Nonsense. You must be here for Sherlock, dear, correct?" the woman asked. Something about her voice made the toxic lump below my heart melt slightly; it was caring, it was honest, it was loving. It was the type of loving that made her seem even older than what she was, as if she had seen many things and wasn't afraid of any of them.

"S-sherlock Holmes, yes." I stammered, licking my lips as I glanced around nervously. Suddenly the entire idea of this was completely and utterly _mad_, but I couldn't turn away now, not when I was _right here_ and John had -

"Come in, dear. Sherlock! You've got a visitor!" the woman yelled up the stairs, pattering around me to shut the door.

"I don't have visitors, Mrs. Hudson, I'm on a case!" a baritone voice replied from somewhere up the stairs, positively smug and brattish.

Mrs. Hudson looked back at me, sorrow in her eyes. "Sorry, deary, but when he's in moods like this, he really won't budge. You can come back tomorrow though, if you'd like."

"Okay. Can you just tell him that John Watson sent me, and - "

A door opened somewhere upstairs. "Send her up, Mrs. Hudson." the voice called, this time more reserved and relaxed than before. I glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who smiled and nodded at the stairs. "You said the magic word." she winked before puttering back into the floor-level flat. "Have a good night, deary."

"Thanks. You too." I replied softly, my eyes flicking to the narrow flight of stairs before me. It took me approximately thirty-three seconds to square my shoulders and remind myself that I had survived a fucking war, so a flight of stairs shouldn't be a problem; it took me fifteen seconds to make it up the flight of seventeen stairs (I counted them to suppress a panic attack that lingered just in the back of my mind); and it took me two seconds to let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, and walk through the open door at the top.

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**Okay, that was chapter one. If you guys like it, I'll write a chapter two, and if you like that, a chapter three, and so on. Hell, you guys know how this thing works. Thank you for reading. Reviews are much appreciated, just so I have feedback to work with and to help improve the story.**


	2. Chapter 2

**So this is a thing. Thank you so much for the follows/favorites/reviews. You all are just _darling_.**

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The first thing that hit me was the smell. To put it kindly, the cluttered flat smelled as if sulphur had pissed on everything in the place, and then hosted a party with a morgue. The second thing to borderline assault my senses was the horrendous _mess_ that was everywhere. Piles upon piles of books were scattered throughout the living area (at least, the parts I could see), empty cups littered the coffee table, and what appeared to be sheet music nesting in any open crevice it could find.

Finally, my eyes landed on the long, impossibly lean figure stretched out on the worn leather couch; pale, long fingers were interlaced under his chin, with his eyes closed. "What do you want?" he asked, sounding absolutely put-upon. He didn't even bother to open his eyes.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" I asked, shutting the door behind me quietly. The figure on the couch let out a heavy, aggravated sigh, and then snapped, "_Obviously_. You said John had sent you, so if you came here to bore me with your asinine questions, please come back later. Or never, really. I'm a bit _busy_."

Busy? How on _earth_ was he 'busy'? He was just lounging on the couch as if he was doing the piece of furniture a bloody favor by laying on it. "Really now?" I inquired, a touch of command slipping into my voice. "Because it looks like you're taking a nap."

Apparently, that was the right thing to say, because Sherlock's eyelids peeled back, exposing a pair of unnerving silver irises with tiny, black pupils in the middle. His gaze shifted to me, and I immediately found myself crossing my arms over my chest defensively; he was the epitome of 'if looks could kill', and let me tell you, Sherlock Holmes could slay an army with his. Trust me. "I was in the middle of solving a triple homicide, so yes, I am _busy_." he sneered, sitting himself up in one fluid, graceful motion.

John forgot to mention the flatmate he spoke so highly of was a complete arse. And there was no way he could solve a triple homicide by just lying on a couch.

"Right. Triple homicide." I retorted sarcastically. "Let me guess: it was Mrs. White, in the study, with the lead pipe."

Sherlock arched a brow, narrowed his eyes, and then spat, "The cook, library, rope. Of course, the rope wasn't actually a rope, it was pig intestines, but..." he waved his hand towards the kitchen, and my line of sight followed to find... oh dear Lord, were those actual intestines on the table? "Technically was used for the same purpose. Oh, and if you want to mock me, you'll have to do much, much better than that, Ms. War Hero."

My breath caught. "Lucky guess. You knew I was in the army because I mentioned John."

A light smile tugged on his lips as he rose and rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt up, revealing what appeared to be nicotine patches up and down his forearm. "I... _five _nicotine patches?" I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. Between the state of the flat, the nicotine patches, and the intestines on the table, I was surprised that someone hadn't hauled him off to the looney bin, or that Mrs. Hudson hadn't kicked him out.

"It was a five-patch problem," he replied in the same tone someone would say, 'The Earth revolves around the Sun.' "And it wasn't a guess, it was an observation. It's the same way I know that you were also an army medic in Afghanistan by your posture, suffer from PTSD by your hair style, and were shot in the chest because of the shirt you're wearing. I could tell you more, but that would be taking away my valuable time. So whatever you came here to say, spit it out so I can get back to work."

I stood there, jaw hanging open slightly for about thirty seconds, because there was just no way he could've known that (observed or not). Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed again, sounding even more annoyed than the first two times put together. "Dear god, it's _observation _not fucking astrophysics. What is it _like_ in your miserable brain?"

And that seemed to snap me out of it. "I came here out of respect for John, not to be insulted by some egotistical arse. So if you could just shut the hell up for five seconds and let me talk - "

Sherlock cut me off with yet _another_ groan of disapproval, and I let out a strangled sound that was somewhere between a scream and a gasp. "Fucking for_get_ it! No wonder he was your only friend." I yelled, flinging the door open so I could stomp out, courtesy for the old lady downstairs not making an appearance. But before I could even take one step forward, John's voice rang out in my head. '_You could... I know you could..._'_  
_

The sound of his voice in that moment was soothing to hear; it was easier to listen to compared to the only other time I seemed to hear him, where he was yelling that we had to get out of there, while the shots were getting closer and closer and closer until... nothing. Until there was nothing left of John anymore, at least, not in Afghanistan. The only piece of him that he offered to give me was the smelly, messy flat and the madman with nicotine patches that lived in it; it was the only piece he deemed fit for me. And either I could take it, because that's what John had wanted - all he had wanted of me - or I could storm out, leaving a madman to grieve on his own.

_"What, you're his _only _friend?" I asked._

_"Something like that."_

I sucked in a few deep breaths through my nose and closed my eyes. I couldn't be bothered to turn around and face the git that was Sherlock Holmes at the moment. "John wanted me to move in with you. He said you would need a doctor and someone who could handle your... observations. And apparently, for some unknown reason, he thought I was the person who could do that." I explained, my back still to him.

"Unnecessary. John's my doctor, and he can resume 'care' of me when his tour ends next month."

My blood froze, and my muscles stiffened involuntarily for a moment. Didn't he know that John was dead? The funeral had been held the week before I left the hospital, and it had been in London so his family and friends (those of us who weren't in a Middle Eastern desert) could mourn properly. Surely Sherlock had been notified, and _surely_ he had attended... hadn't he? "Sherlock..." I began slowly, turning around to face him and shutting the door again. He was still standing there, his expression still certain and arrogant. "You _do_ know that John..." I didn't want to continue, because it should be obvious. I had explained everything in the past tense; surely his powers of observation had picked up on it. But if he did, he didn't show it whatsoever. "John is dead, Sherlock." I finished, searching his face for something.

And for a moment, the arrogant expression slipped away, making him seem impossibly young. "Oh," he murmured. "Oh, yes. I must've deleted that... bit of information." he turned to look out the window and placed his hands on his hips. For the first time since I entered 221B, we were both silent. Neither of us said anything; I watched Sherlock stare out the window, his frame unmoving - if he was breathing, his ribcage wasn't giving any hints away. After five minutes of this, I cleared my throat, hoping to gather his attention. The black curls on his head bounced slightly, signaling that he had heard and acknowledged my noise.

"I'm sorry, I didn't..."

I was silenced when his hand shot out to the cluttered table nearest him, and somehow presented a violin and bow underneath all the rubbish and sheet music. The instrument nestled into the familiar cavern between his chin, collarbone, and shoulder; the fingers of his left hand ran possessively along the neck before curling into position; his right arm raised the bow and softly ran it over the strings, eliciting a heartbreakingly sweet sound that only existed in concert halls. It was undoubtedly the most intimate thing I had ever seen in my entire life (more intimate than watching soldiers bleed out, than family saying goodbye, than sex), and I found myself looking away. It was as if, for a moment, Sherlock Holmes had existed in a completely separate realm, and I was (not) watching from a safe distance. The entire ordeal only lasted for thirty seconds at most before he lowered the bow and softly said, "Were you there?"

_Yes. I was there when we hit the explosive, when the car flipped, when sand flooded my mouth and burning oil __assaulted my nose and screams, bullets, discombobulated orders were filling my ears. I was there when I found Smith, his chest looking like ground beef as I tried, I swear to god I _tried _to save him or at least stop the blood from all spilling out until we could get to somewhere safe, but there was _so much blood_ that I couldn't keep hold of the tweezers or the needle. I was there when I first heard John's voice yelling at me from above as he covered me, as he told me to 'leave it' as he told me that 'there are a lot of them coming in'. And I was there when I told him to shut up and I was there, _oh dear god_, I was there when John stopped screaming at me, when Smith stopped screaming from under me, and when something exploded in my damn chest, but it was okay. Yes, yes, yes, Sherlock, a thousand times _yes_, I was _there_._

"Yes."

"Did he hurt, at the end?"

_Yes. He was shot in a non-vital area, so he probably slowly bled out and - _"No. He didn't feel a thing, it happened so fast." Sometimes you had to lie to people because it was the right thing to do. Sometimes it was better to have people believe something, even if it wasn't true, because it would help them sleep better at night or just get them through the day. And I thought I understood that, but until I was lying to a man who had just lost his only friend (I had thought John was exaggerating, but based off of how our night started off, he definitely wasn't), telling him that John didn't hurt at all, I finally _understood_ it.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, but didn't do much more than that before the bow found the strings again, this time sounding harsh and quick, and I took that as my cue to leave. I quietly toed my way into the kitchen (trying my best to ignore the intestines on the tabletop and the - _oh my god there was a human head on the counter by the sink_) and found a scrap piece of paper that didn't seem too important, scribbling down a quick note with my number attached at the bottom before leaving the flat in a much calmer mood than when I first entered.

The music didn't quiet at all as I descended the stairs and slipped out the front door, looking for a cab to take me home. As soon as I found one, I gave the address of my parents' home, and the taxi pulled off the curb. I slumped my head against the cool window, watching London as it continued to keep going, going, going, just as much as it had before on the ride over. It was an honest miracle, really, that the world just kept going at such an alarming rate, never slowing down as so much to blink at its inhabitants. Then again, maybe the world didn't want to; we were tiny, insignificant specks all trying to grab 'our piece' of this point in space. We create, we destroy. And so, in retrospect, maybe the world _had_ to keep on turning as to distract from all of the hurt that filled it.

Right as the taxi pulled up to the curb again, I felt my phone vibrate. Throwing the rest of my bills at the cabbie, I thanked him and fumbled with my keys in the dark as I unlocked my phone to read the new text message I had received.

**I go without speaking, sleeping, or eating for days on end, I play violin at all hours of the night, and I do experiments in the kitchen that are vital to my work. - SH**

I smiled to myself, because there was just no bloody way that pig intestines and a human head were 'vital' to his work - whatever that was.

**Why are you telling me this?**

It wasn't even fifteen seconds later before I got a reply.

**Flatmates should know the worst about each other. - SH**

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**I'm really, really, really sorry if this is a colossal disappointment. I wanted to get another chapter out for you guys... I just don't know if this is any good. I hope it is though.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm sorry - updates are gonna be shorter and slower (and crappier) in the next few days, as I'm moving in to my dorm at University this next week. I know it's hard to tell right now, but the little quirk Sherlock had about 'deleting' John's death is actually rather relevant and will be developed - no worries, he didn't just decide to forget the wonderful John Watson. So here it is!**

* * *

My eyesight had adjusted to the darkness over an hour ago, but I still wasn't tired. In fact, I was _so_ tired that sleep seemed impossible, so I gave up tossing and turning, and resigned to staring at the ceiling of my old bedroom, hoping that it would cave in. Maybe it would hit me hard enough to render me unconscious; a bottle of sleeping pills sat invitingly on the nightstand, but I couldn't bring myself to swallow a few. I knew disturbing, distorted images were waiting in the back of my brain, and it seemed to be connected by an invisible wire to the toxic lump two inches below my heart. Part of me wondered if I didn't unscrew the bottle because I wouldn't stop with one pill. The other part wondered that it was because I was a grown adult, who was a soldier and a doctor, and I _still_ couldn't get child-lock caps off.

Both were probably true, but I could wait until morning to figure it out which was truer (the child-lock caps).

After another endless hour, I let out a Sherlockian groan and trudged to the bathroom to take a shower. Of course, the only options were: lava or polar ice caps, so I ground my molars together and let the boiling water beat against my skin. It felt extraordinary after a few minutes; my skin was red, and I felt uncomfortably warm all the way to my bones, but it also felt like it was scraping away all the sun and sand that never seemed to leave me, even though it was far away. It made me feel normal again, if only for fifteen minutes.

I thought I understood what would happen to my mind if something traumatic happened, but I didn't, not really. I was never expecting the random outbursts of anger, the disinterest, or the slightest bits of blood would be enough to have me curled in a wet heap over the toilet expelling my dinner, as I was now after I nicked myself. The whole fit lasted about five minutes, and by the time I managed to heave myself off the cold and wet tile, the hot water had run out. I turned off the faucet, wrapped a towel around me as to not disturb my parents if they sleepily trampled out of their bedroom, and then retreated to my own bedroom.

Sleep did not come.

"Elizabeth?"

God, couldn't she just _leave me alone_? I suppressed an irritated noise to the back of my throat as I moped from my bed to the door, revealing my mother in her night gown. Her deep brown eyes were narrowed, her teeth worrying the corner of her bottom lip. Every time I looked at her, I couldn't help but notice how much I _didn't_ resemble her whatsoever. In fact, the only visible resemblance we shared was our hair; wavy red hair that couldn't be bothered to do anything we asked of it when we asked it.

Her expression twisted into quiet disdain when she noticed the purple lines under my bloodshot green eyes, but she was wise enough not to vocalize the observation (the online support blogs for mothers probably suggested it). "There's a man asking for you, says his name is Sherlock. Angular face, long coat, bad personality. I tried to send him away, but he's still standing out on the stoop. Should I phone the police or...?"

How in the world did he find out where I was staying? "No, no. I met him yesterday, I'll go talk to him." I sighed, trying to prepare my sleep-deprived body for the one-man war that was Sherlock Holmes. I asked my mother to let him in and offer him a cuppa, even though I knew she'd probably make him breakfast if he batted an eyelash. I ran a brush through my hair, threw on jeans and a sweater, and brushed my teeth in record time (I had to resist the urge to make my bed before I left the room).

Sure enough, I could hear distinct sounds of dishes rising as I (un)gracefully trotted down the narrow staircase and into the tiny kitchen. My head was pounding, and my stomach churned uncomfortably at the smell of the sausage my mother was frying, but standing in the corner of the suffocating room was Sherlock with his cheekbones, curly hair, and unnerving eyes. He had a commanding presence that seemed to take up all of the space in a room, leaving nothing but what he made of it. He was also adorned with his infuriatingly collected attitude, which had bile rising in the back of my throat. Everything about Sherlock, even in the friendly, familiar environment screamed _DO NOT TOUCH_, which somehow made him even more impossible and commanding.

"Morning." he said; it was short, brief, and to the point.

"Can I talk to you outside for a moment?" I asked, jerking my head towards the living area.

"But breakfast is almost ready," my mother interjected, pointing the spatula she was holding at me.

I gave her a soft look, one that I hadn't given anyone in a while. She was trying so hard, doing so much for me even though I was the reason at least two men were dead. She was really, really trying, in spite of my quiet frustration and acts of ingratitude. I thought I understood what it meant to love someone unconditionally; before I was deployed, I thought I loved my parents unconditionally. But now, as I faced my tired, struggling mother holding a spatula to me in a manner she hadn't done since I was a child, I finally understood that I _didn't_ understand it.

So instead of sighing some excuse about how I wasn't hungry or how I didn't even like sausage (because I don't), I simply said, "I know, I'll be quick." with a small smile.

Sherlock followed me out of the kitchen and into the living area. He was so silent I kept having to glance over my shoulder to see if he was even following me. When I felt that my mother was just out of earshot, I squared my shoulders. "How did you even figure out where I -"

"You're not hungry." he interrupted, arching a brow in a way that someone might do if they were watching something mildly interesting on the telly.

"Don't change the subject. How did you know I was staying here?" I demanded. As my mind caught up with my body, I realized my posture was tense; my muscles were coiled tight, ready to fling myself into a fight at any moment, and my hands were curled into fists.

"Wrote down the taxi number and asked around. Why didn't you tell her you weren't hungry?" his words were rushed, but his eyes were bright, as if he were finally interested in something, and _that_ had me even more confused. He was a detective or investigator or something (he claimed that he was solving a triple homicide, so...), but he seemed completely ignorant to basic human interaction.

"First of all, I don't think taxis just give out information like that. Try again. And second of all, sometimes people tell lies or do things they don't want to do because it's for someone they care about. So yes, I'm not hungry. Yes, I don't like what she made, but I'm still going to sit down and eat it, and then I'm going to ask for seconds, because that's what people _do_." I hissed lowly, trying to keep my temper in line. Every time we were in the same room, it seemed that we couldn't just have a conversation like regular people. Despite this, Sherlock did wince at my phrase, 'That's what people do.', but I decided to drop that. We were already carrying on two different conversations simultaneously, there was no need for a third.

Sherlock was quiet for half a second before he said, "Your name is Elizabeth Aplin, you are an only child, but had a sister that went was abducted in the early 2000s - she was never found and is presumed dead. Consequently, your parents became overbearing, especially your mother, and that was partly why you went into the military. Get away from it all, have a little excitement. However, you didn't want to come back and have nothing to fall back on, so you decided to become a military doctor. A good one, too, except for the fact that your convoy was caught in an ambush and you were critically injured. Currently suffering from PTSD, but right now there's danger, so you feel a bit more at ease."

He spoke the words at the speed of thought, and for about fifteen seconds after he had finished, my brain was still trying to process words. I must have had a dumb expression, because he smirked and then took a quick glance around the living area, appearing completely indifferent to what he saw.

"I... you..." my brain was still short-circuited from what had just happened. How could he know all of that? Was he a stalker and all of this was some giant, sick scheme? There was just no way that he could look at someone and -

Well, he doesn't look.

_"It was an _observation_, not fucking astrophysics."_ he had said last night. At first, it sounded crazy and far-fetched, but if he could do it a second time, it was beginning to seem a little more believable. But _how_? That's what I couldn't wrap my head around; how he could enter a space and instantly tell you everything about it. It was like he saw a scene or situation (or person) as a giant equation, full of variables, and then he worked through it at light speed, spitting out an answer.

I had the answer, so now I needed to find the equation. Sherlock wasn't a magician, he was a magnifying glass in a trench coat. I let my eyes sweep over the room, trying to put myself in his shoes.

Starting with the collage of picture frames on the wall by the stairs. There were the usual: large group photos with extended family, ones of me throughout various stages of life, Dad with Uncle Hugh, one of me holding Cousin Emily when she was born, and... and one of me playing with Emma, my younger sister. Check one. The other half about me going into the military _because_ of Emma was psychoanalysis, and really good psychoanalysis at that. He could put two and two together about my reasons for discharge and everything else since I mentioned John. But where did he get the danger from?

"You've uncurled your hands and your shoulders have slumped forward slightly because they're relaxed." he informed, turning his attention to his gloves; it was as if he had read my mind. "You are not haunted by the war, Ms. Aplin. You miss it."

And despite the insanity of it, the complete and total bullocks of this entire damn situation, all that fell out of my smiling mouth was, "That's fucking brilliant, you know that?"

Sherlock's eyes darted up to me, complete and utter confusion filling them for a moment before he regained control. "Really?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes. That was... yes."

"Oh."

An uneasy silence had almost fallen before he added in a smug, arrogant tone, "Did I get it all right then?"

"Excuse me?"

"The deduction. Did I get it right?"

This time _I_ found myself with the smug and arrogant attitude. "Almost."

"What did I get wrong?!" he asked, almost a bit eagerly, like a spoilt child who hadn't gotten his way.

"My sister, Emma, wasn't kidnapped. She ran away."

"There's always something." he murmured, breaking eye contact and awkwardly shoving his hands in his pockets. Sherlock had a way of going from this commanding, authoritative presence to the behavior of Bambi in a matter of seconds. It wasn't just his behavior, it was also his appearance. It was as if the layers were peeled away from his face, revealing a coltish young man who barely knew how to operate his own limbs.

I cleared my throat before saying, "Anyway. There was a reason you showed up - I'm still not sure how you did that - so might as well get it out. Is it about me possibly moving in?"

"Elizabeth, breakfast!"

"Just a minute!"

"Crime scene," Sherlock interjected coolly, pulling a hand out of his pocket to reveal a Blackberry tightly in his grip. "Need an expert medical opinion."

"I'm not sure I'm up for that, Sherlock. For one, I barely know you. And two, I'd think the police force has 'expert medical opinions' from medical experts." I replied hesitantly. My body was running on no sleep, adrenaline, and the promise of a (disgusting) tolerable breakfast. Technically, I should be exhausted; however, I felt energized at the thought of being able to actually think again. Clinic jobs (which I would have to get sooner than later) were about treating the sniffles and prescribing arthritis medication, which I was completely useless at. My brain wasn't trained to think like that, it was trained to think in the worst-case, hard-to-swallow, blood-and-guts everywhere situations.

Sherlock made an irritated noise and waved his hand dismissively. "They're all idiots. John obviously trusted you, so that leads me to believe you're not as much of an idiot as they are."

My head cocked to the side in slight confusion. It was the most left-handed of left-handed compliments I had ever received in my life, and I wasn't sure whether to laugh, or be annoyed. "So will you come?" he asked again, this time more pressing.

"Just out of curiosity, are you _always_ this demanding, or do you sometimes say please?" I inquired as I turned on my heel and started towards the kitchen.

* * *

"Oi, Freak!" a woman with curly brown hair barked as Sherlock barged past her, ducking under the police tape and holding it up for me. "She doesn't have clearance, she can't come in."

"She's with me." Sherlock shot back curtly.

"What, like, _with_ you?" the woman asked, horrified. "Oh my god, you really are a psychopath, aren't you? Taking this poor girl to a _crime scene_ as a date." She turned to me. "Look, if you're in trouble, you can tell me. I'm a police officer." she shot a lethal glance at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.

I looked between the pair of them before softly saying, "I, uh, we aren't together. I'm just here as a consult."

"So the consult has a consult now?" a male voice chimed in.

"Fuck off Anderson." Sherlock snarled, whipping around to glare at the mousy man in a blue biohazard suit.

"I see that John decided to finally do what was best for him and scuttle off to Afghanistan again," the man, Anderson, continued. My chest tightened, and my pulse thumped loudly in my ears. He was treading on thin ice, and I would not be afraid to push him into the icy water underneath it. "How does it make you feel that he would rather be out there getting shot at than spending another moment with you?"

And that was it. I didn't _feel_ myself lunging at the Anderson guy, but I did feel a hand steel me away from him, and literally pull me in the opposite direction. "I can handle them thinking I'm some sort of psychopath, but I do _not_ need them thinking you are too. It delays the work greatly."

I thought I understood what I was getting into. I did not.

* * *

**Okay. So this little shit took forever because it deleted itself FIVE TIMES. So this is just... ugh. Sorry guys.**


	4. Chapter 4

**If you are reading this: THANK YOU. I know it's been forever and a day, but I finally found tidbits of time to churn this out. Finally all moved in and adjusted and connected to the internet.**

* * *

Sherlock released my arm and strode over to a man with silver hair and a tired expression. "Lestrade," he said coolly, appearing rather bored, but trying to show as much respect and patience as he could spare at the moment. Lestrade nodded in my direction, making brief eye contact, before giving Sherlock an inquisitive stare. "Elizabeth. She's with me."

Lestrade's face twisted in horror. "Christ, like _with_ you, with you?" he asked, his arms folding over his chest in a defensive manner. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes in frustration and spat, "There _are_ other things in the world besides relationships and sex. Elizabeth's my new assistant."

"I thought you wouldn't have another after… you know."

"Why wouldn't I? It's just a job that needs to be filled." Sherlock replied, oblivious to how insensitive he sounded. Lestrade sighed loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, that's an argument I really don't want to start with you, but – "

I sensed their conversation going south, and decided to clear my throat to get everyone back on track. Lestrade and Sherlock both glanced at me in annoyed surprise, as if I had turned on a loud radio at a library. "So where exactly is our victim?" I asked.

* * *

Out of all of the scenarios I was predicting, seeing a dismembered toddler served on a dinner table was not one of them. In fact, the situation caught me so off guard that I nearly walked away, saying that I could not do this, would not do this, and that I should have applied at the surgery or A&E that was hiring. However, Afghanistan had a funny way of teaching you how to harden yourself. In the end, being able to disconnect your head from your heart was an advantage; an advantage that could save lives in tight situations, and an advantage that quickly morphed into emotional preservation.

But children had always been a sensitive area for me. A family was something I had wanted ever since I was a child myself. I would babysit in my teenage years, and I even was a nanny for a family for a few summers during medical school. Of course, the war and the injury and the toxic lump in my chest basically shattered those desires. I could barely function as a regular human being, so how could I ever marry or have a baby? These thoughts all crowded my head as my eyes begrudgingly took in the sight they were given.

The child's torso was in the center of the table, displayed on a giant china platter with edible embellishments around it; the limbs were arranged on smaller serving plates around the large one; the fingers and toes were gathered neatly in the gravy dish; and the head was stuck proudly in the center of the candelabra. The entire table was set, too, but only for one, at the head of the table. I thought I understood the evils of humanity. But after seeing this, it was very clear that I did not.

I still had the urge to throw up and run away screaming, even though adrenaline and excitement was running through my veins.

"I don't really think you need my expertise to figure out what…" I couldn't bring myself to finish the sentence. It felt like it didn't need an ending, not when the subject had suffered such a premature one. My eyes slid over to Sherlock, who was a cold mask of indifference, and I swallowed the urge to strangle him (again). How could he _not_ react, even slightly, to this? It went against every primal instinct, every paternal instinct that had been encoded in our genes… granted, some had more of a paternal instinct than others, but still. A _dismembered toddler that's arranged on a dinner table like a fucking feast is not _something you could just 'let go.'

"Stop thinking." he snapped suddenly, turning his harsh gaze on me.

Did he seriously just…? "Stop thinking?" I repeated incredulously. Could he hear me or something? No, there's no way he could hear me unless I was talking out loud, which I clearly wasn't doing, because other people would've acknowledged it.

"Yes, that's what I said. It's loud and annoying." he retorted, walking towards the table in long, graceful strides.

"What, you can read minds?"

He turned sharply on his heel and glared at me for half of a second before placing his index finger in the center of his lips and let out a venomous, "Sh." before quickly returning his attention to the scene.

Sherlock pulled out the chair with the place setting in front of it, and sat down; he carefully lowered his head so it was level with the platter that had the child's torso on it. The silver eyes that were so perfect at scrutinizing were doing just that – drinking in all of the information they could as fast as they could. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration; his lips were quirked off to the side slightly.

"So how'd you find Sherlock Holmes?"

I flinched by the sudden nearness of Lestrade's voice, and tried not to give him an annoyed glare. What was the big deal about my association with Sherlock? John never said there was a problem with it, so why was I facing all of this... shock?

"John Watson." I replied softly, trying not to catch Sherlock's ear. "We served together, worked in the same hospital. Got ambushed together, asked me to look after his best mate." I let myself giggle at that, because for some reason, in the middle of a crime scene, it was humorous. It was also easier to cope with. It was easier to laugh it off than to admit that there was a lump in my chest that made it unbearably difficult to breathe; that made me crouch down when I heard a loud noise; that made nightmares normal and daydreams terrifying. I thought I understood the lump in my chest and why it did all of these things, but I didn't.

"Elizabeth," Sherlock scowled (though his voice gave away a certain friendly affection) from his position at the table. "You can't _giggle_ at a crime scene."

I was about to reply to Lestrade when a soft pressure hit the top of my head. It was barely noticeable, like a raindrop, but when I pressed my fingers to my hair, they came away red. Lestrade saw my fingers and furrowed his brows in confusion, stepping closer to see.

"Am I bleeding?" I inquired, leaning my head down so he could inspect. It was rather awkward, because we didn't know each other, but his fingers brushed the strands of hair away to look at my scalp with the same touch that a father had, and I instantly felt more at ease with the situation. I figured if he could withstand Sherlock even with the rest of the police insulting him at any chance they got, he was a decent man. A decent man who was thoroughly confused when there was no abrasion on my scalp.

And then Sherlock made a noise of subdued pleasure. "What goes up must come..."

I didn't hear him finish the phrase. One, because I knew where he was going, and two, because my eyes had skidded upward to the ceiling to find a message scrawled in blood. My stomach flipped suddenly, and for a moment I thought I was going to lose my breakfast.

**SHALL I TELL YOU A STORY, MR. HOLMES?**

In one dramatic spin of his coat, Sherlock was out of room, leaving the rest of us to process it on our own, even though he was the madman with the nicotine patches and all of the answers. I thought I understood the reasoning for his exit, but I did not.

* * *

**OKAY SO YEAH. So starting now, chapters are probably going to be shorter, simply because I do not have time to put up drafts that are 2k+ words (stupid classes). Yes, these chapters are drafts. I go back and make changes ****_after_**** they're posted. Don't ask me why, that's just how my brain prefers it.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Surprise. An attempted chapter from Sherlock's POV. Fingers crossed I got this right. Dedicated to harliesue for being just a doll.**

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China, china, china... _why_ did they use this _china_? The dishes didn't belong to the owners of the household - all of _their_ china was proudly on display in the armoire (cherry, vintage by design not by age, new. Purchased within the last three years). So why not use the victim's china if they were sending a message? Why use someone else's?

Blurry red reflection in plate - blood, most likely on the ceiling with a message. Old, overused trick; they're getting so repetitive that it's simply _dull_. However, theatrics never fail to send a message. Although murderers could stand to have a little bit of an imagination for once (setting up the child as a dinner was mildly interesting; head in the candelabra was brilliant).

Theatrics confirmed. Elizabeth feels a drop on her head, Lestrade inspects her scalp for abrasions (there aren't any, of course). "What goes up, must come down." I say simply for added effect. I scan between faces, watching one by one as they all slip into horror and pale.

But Elizabeth's doesn't. Her eyes widen, but she doesn't physically react (Afghanistan, war, army doctor, acclimated). John sent her, he knew she would have little quirks to keep me fascinated until he gets back...

_"_What_, Mycroft?"_

_"Sherlock, there's been an accident."_

_"No, I won't investigate it for you, so - "_

_"It's John, Sherlock."_

_Heart skips, cheeks flush. Something akin to panic swarms me, I sit down in the kitchen chair so I won't fall. "What about John?" I ask. Make myself sound bored, sound irritated, sound disinterested._

_"He's dead. I'm sorry, I - "_

_I hang up before he can finish, and gently let the Blackberry rest in my hand for a few seconds before throwing it as hard as I can into the kitchen window. Glass shatters; Mrs. Hudson's door opens, slippers patter up the stairs as quickly as her hip will allow. She doesn't knock, simply barges in, fully adorned in her night gown. "Sherlock! What have you done to the bloody window?" she demands._

_Eyes feel strange; unfamiliar pressure behind them, hot, stinging sensation. Throat closes, small noise escapes. Mrs. Hudson's eyes shift so that they're holding concern and anger simultaneously. "Sherlock Holmes, tell me what the bloody hell is going on." she says, her hands falling to her hips._

_All of a sudden my face feels wet, mouth is making obscene noises that rise from my chest. Strange emptiness, cracking, breaking. Fold in on myself to keep from completely falling to pieces all over Mrs. Hudson's rug, because that would only anger her further. Blood is thicker than water, and impossible to get out of the carpet (I did an experiment)._

_Soft hands touching my face, my hair, smoothing me out. Murmurs pacifying words as she wraps her arms __around me. Feel like a child again, crying over a scraped knee. Want to pull away and bite, but can't. "It's just a window, dear." she sighs. Feels like my skin has been slowly peeled away, open and naked and raw, trying to control myself._

_Mrs. Hudson hauls me towards my room, but I dart upstairs to John's. A small, sad noise echoes far behind me, and at last she understands. Fling his door open, anger coursing through me, start throwing open his dresser, emptying the contents before collapsing on his bed. Soak his pillows until there's nothing left, and then quietly draw the sheets back and fall into them, breathing in his stale odour until morning (don't sleep, watch the [dull] sunrise)._

_When I roused from my stiff position, I carefully fold his belongings back into their proper places, make his bed, and close the door. Go downstairs and make tea, check on blood coagulation._

_Death of John Hamish Watson: deleted._

**SHALL I TELL YOU A STORY, MR. HOLMES?**

Familiar pull in my brain, and the pieces fall into place. Slightly annoyed that it's taken me this long, mostly overjoyed that I finally have an interesting serial killer. Need to figure out his next move before -

China. It has something to do with the china, I just know it. Text message captivates my attention as I storm out of the scene (need to check the internet for that particular pattern), almost causes me to stop.

**Bored? - JM**

**The bloody message on the ceiling was a bit gaudy for my taste. Do branch out creatively. - SH**

**You seem to stick with the same branch, don't you think? - JM**

Hail a cab, distantly hear Elizabeth running behind me. If she doesn't make it, I'll text her the address. Puzzled by the text, frustration raises. Cabbie rolls down the window, give him destination right as Elizabeth reaches me. Open door, she gives me a strange look before ducking in. China, branch, china, branch, china, branch, _china, branch..._

**Never liked riddles. - SH**

**Learn to. - JM**

* * *

**Whaaaaat? Another chapter a day apart? I didn't wait two weeks? The beauty of today's slight panic attack is that I did my homework for the next three weeks. This was probably the hardest thing to write, but it was kind of fun trying it out.**


	6. Chapter 6

**How on earth did I manage to have the loveliest people reading, favoriting, following, and reviewing this story? Seriously? I sincerely thank you guys for it - all of it. I'm not taking a single bit of it for granted. I'm trying not to let you down here.**

* * *

Being in a severely confined space with Sherlock shouldn't be intimidating, especially to a soldier. But let me tell you, it is. I've known the man for less than twenty-four hours, and he's already given me a few good reasons to be... wary of him. He probably knows five different ways to kill me in the back of this cab and make it look like an accident - and whatever _didn't_ look like an accident he could certainly talk his way out of.

He was still absorbed in his phone (texts) as well as being a million miles away in his head. After a few minutes he returned his phone to his trouser pocket and settled his gaze outside the window, hand resting on his chin as his index finger absently ran over his top lip. Sherlock Holmes was easily one of the most captivating people I had ever laid eyes on, but his personality drove anyone off once they got past his bizarre physical appearance.

But not John. John never ran away (to my knowledge), so neither could I. He had essentially tried to do what he always did: take care of people. He knew I would need help adjusting to (boring) civilian life, and he also knew Sherlock would need someone to blindly follow him into whatever damn crime scene he wormed his way into. John was trying to save us both, even though he couldn't save himself. I thought I understood what it meant to be a good person, to genuinely care for someone, but until John, I didn't. There was so much more to life than simply going through the motions; there was so much more to saving a person than just healing their physical wounds, there was the more complex, messy side of trying to help heal their emotional wounds. I thought I understood that, but I didn't. John did.

"Where are we going, exactly?" I dared to ask after several minutes of silence.

"Lab. Need to ask Molly a few things." Sherlock retorted quickly, sounding completely and utterly bored as usual, but also slightly intrigued. Maybe Molly was a girlfriend? I honestly couldn't picture Sherlock being the type to have a relationship, but then again, more amazing discoveries had happened over the course of human history.

"And why are we going to the lab to talk to Molly?" I pressed.

"Because she's useful in areas like this."

"Only in this area?"

"Of course. What other areas would you be referring to?" he finally swiveled his head around to look at me, somewhat quizzical yet harsh, as if he was having difficulty deciding whether to call me an idiot and insult me, or if he was genuinely confused. For some reason, the thought of talking about relationships with someone like Sherlock made my stomach queasy (although it could be the breakfast), and I shook my head. "Never mind."

He inhaled sharply and then said, "Relationships aren't really my area. They're messy, require a lot of work that takes away from my work, and usually involve too much sentiment for my taste."

I nodded, short and curt, and then diverted my eyes to the knotted mess my fingers had become. "That's fine." I replied, because I meant it. It was fine with me that he didn't want romantic relationships in his life, because I didn't want any in mine at the moment. It was just one more thing that made Sherlock so... Sherlock, that it would almost seem abnormal if he _did_ engage in romantic or sexual relationships.

"Really?" he asked, soft and confused.

"Of course." I said, looking at him again, almost shocked by how _relieved_ he sounded. "It's fine, it's all fine. It's your life, you should live it how you want to as long as it doesn't harm anyone else, regardless of how people think about it. So if you're a self-proclaimed asexual, that's fine."

He just blinked a few times before murmuring, "That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"That I'm a psychopath." he grinned like the Cheshire Cat at his own statement, like it was something he took pride in. I just grinned back. "I don't believe that."

"Would you believe that I'm a high-functioning sociopath?" he countered, semi-serious.

With a grin still playing on my lips, I simply said, "I believe people need to do their research before jumping to conclusions. Whether it be about others or themselves."

And Sherlock chuckled in the low, baritone voice of his, and then returned his steady gaze back to the whizzing city of London.

* * *

The cab deposited us at St. Bartholomew's, and despite the fact that _Sherlock_ had hailed the cab, he left _me_ to pay as he darted off into the double doors of the insanely sanitary institution. After years of working in the war-torn desert, a proper hospital setting seemed too... clean. And white. Everything _reeked_ of disinfectant, the fluorescents seemed blinding instead of illuminating, and the floors looked like they had been scrubbed within an inch of their life.

I jogged until I caught up with the madman in the Belstaff, and barely slipped through the lift doors before they closed. We rode down to the basement in complete silence, but I was beginning to feel comfortable with silence. Nervous chatter was never my strong suit, but people always seemed too afraid of silence to ever let it naturally occur. I guess what you say when no one can hear you reflects a lot about who you are.

The lift opened, revealing a cute, mousy girl in a white lab coat, holding her purse. She smiled at Sherlock, and gave me a hesitant one as well. She had gorgeous brown hair (the kind I had always wanted instead of my unruly red mess) that matched her big, brown eyes. I liked her instantly.

"Sherlock," she chirped, eyes bright. "I was just on my way to lunch, _I have a date_ - "

"Cancel. I need you for a quick experiment." he replied, steering her around as we exited, and drawing her back towards the set of double doors at the end of the hallway.

"Sherlock, she has a date." I stated, pulling on his arm to stop him. "Let her go out for lunch, and you can do the experiment when she gets back."

"Why? Molly doesn't mind."

"Have you actually asked her that since you saw her?" I pointed out, breaking eye contact with Sherlock so I could look over his shoulder at the timid Molly. "Do you want to go to lunch?" I asked her, trying to come off as sincere instead of irritated, since she wasn't the source of it (you get five guesses as to which person is).

"No, it's fine. Not that hungry anyway." she smiled, her eyes flitting to the back of Sherlock's head every few seconds. And then it dawned on me: he wasn't into her, but she was definitely into him. That's why she was okay about skipping her date, that's why she brought it up in the first place.

"See? Always eager to help." he turned to flash a quick, insincere grin, and then headed towards the doors again.

An hour later, I was watching in mild interest as Sherlock and Molly finished up a series of tests that had to do with blood viscosity. I assumed it was so he could figure out exactly how fresh the blood on the ceiling was. Every now and then Molly would look over and ask if I was okay or if I needed anything, and I always gave her a small smile and said I was fine, even though I was bored. The next time she asked, however, I asked her for directions to the bathroom.

"Turn right outside of the doors, and keep going until you reach the IT office, and then make a left." she replied.

I followed her instructions, did my business, and was passing the IT office on my way back when I rather literally ran into one of the men in the hallway, causing him to drop a few papers and the laptop he was carrying underneath his arm.

"Oh, sorry!" I gritted, bending down to help him pick up his stuff.

"Ah, it's fine. Happens, haha." he replied, good-naturedly. When I stood back up to hand him his belongings, a very surprised noise escaped my lips, and he gave me an odd look. Coincidentally, he looked just like the doctor who did my rounds when I was injured in Afghanistan, the surgeon named Brook. There was no way (no way, right?) that Brook would be working in an IT office in London, but something primal was crawling underneath my skin that made me feel edgy, made the hairs on my neck stand up. I felt like a prey that was staring straight at its predator, completely caught off-guard. "I'm Jim, by the way." he extended a hand, and I swallowed my urge to run back to the lab, and shook it firmly. There were no calluses on his hand (if he was right-handed) like there should be on a soldier's.

Maybe it was all in my head.

"Emma. Nice to meet you." I forced myself to smile.

Don't ask me why I lied. There was something incredibly off about the entire situation, and my basic instincts for self preservation were kicking in. So I said the name of my distant sister who ran away to join a traveler community (not sure if she succeeded - they're impossibly closed off from society).

"So are you new or...?" Jim asked, running a hand through his black hair. His voice was on the tenor side of the spectrum, but hypnotic to say the least. He sounded like someone who could convince you of anything if he tried hard enough.

"No, actually. Just visiting a friend, Molly, for lunch. I should be getting back..."

"Oh, yeah. Well it was nice to meet you." he smiled, eyes glancing over me in a fashion that appeared harmless enough, but for some reason made my muscles tense and relax simultaneously. _"You feel danger, so you relax."_ Sherlock had deduced earlier this morning. Maybe it was just a side-effect of my PTSD, and I was making a big deal out of nothing. I was relating faces to my time in Afghanistan because I was in a hospital.

"You too." I awkwardly danced around Jim and briskly walked my way back to the lab, body sagging in relief as the doors shut behind me.

"Did you get lost?" Sherlock's voice nearly rattled me out of my skin, and I jerked my head up to meet his gaze, only to see that he was peering into a microscope. "You took longer than necessary."

"No, er, just bumped into someone, made them drop their stuff." my voice sounded raw, like I had spent hours screaming, but I was feeling the outer edges a panic attack slowly fading away. Something about Sherlock was terrifying yet soothing. It was the good kind of scary that never made you feel like you weren't safe, you were just testing the limits. It was an adrenaline rush.

"Oh. Almost finished. Care for Italian food tonight? I know the owner of a place. Cases like this usually only take a day, but I know regular people insist on eating at some point."

I blinked. "Sure. Why exactly do you need me again?"

Sherlock reached to his side and revealed a Browning. He carefully placed it on the table without taking his eyes off of the eyepieces of the microscope. "Do you know how to use this?" he asked, deathly serious.

My heart fluttered in (sick) appreciation and anticipation. "Yes."

He left the conversation at that.

A few minutes later, we were back in the lift, and I felt my phone buzz. A text from my mother, asking if I would be home for dinner.

**No. ****I'll be out for a while.**

**Okay. Do you know where I put the good china by any chance? I can't find it anywhere.**

I sighed and smiled to myself; leave it to my mother to lose her own china.

* * *

**"Starting now, chapters will be shorter." *types 2k words* I'm probably going to edit the shit out of this, but I thought I'd throw it up for you guys. Because you're lovely. You seriously make my day better.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Came home for a weekend. Because reasons (biology kicking my butt, piano making my fingers cry) that will go untold. SO HERE'S A STORY AND I TYPED IT FROM MY BED BECAUSE I MISSED MY BED. **

* * *

I had never imagined that I would see the inside of New Scotland Yard, but here I was, standing in a Detective Inspector's office as a madman poured over photographs of the crime scene we had visited a few short hours earlier. Lestrade had the photographs spread out on his desk, Sherlock hunched forward with his coat collar popped up, looking mysterious and angry as always. Several minutes of awkward silence passed, only the clock ticking incessantly in the background, as I nervously glanced between the DI, Sherlock, and the door.

"Care for something to drink?" Lestrade finally asked, clearing his throat and rising from his position behind the desk and making his way towards the door.

"Coffee. Black, two sugars." Sherlock injected mechanically before I could even open my mouth. In truth, the severe lack of sleep combined with today's physical (and emotional) activities were beginning to have an effect on my body's ability to function; my head pounded, my eyes were sore, and a bone-crushing weight seemed to follow me around, making every movement feel like I was trying to run underwater.

"I wasn't talking to you, Sherlock, but okay." Lestrade's voice held the perfect mixture of annoyance and a silent affection. So far I knew of two people that were able to withstand the hurricane that was Sherlock Holmes, and one of them was six feet underground; and with Lestrade's career choice, it wouldn't surprise me if he had flirted with cemeteries a few times himself. But he was loyal, and I had to give him that. It was hard to be loyal to someone of Sherlock's nature, especially when they were never reliable to return the favor. I thought I understood the entirety of what it meant to be loyal, especially from my time in the armed forces, but I didn't. Sometimes, loyalty was a quiet force in the background that somehow kept everything from falling apart or floating away into the insane, lonely, (boring) world that existed around two people. Sometimes, loyalty was an individual's gravity. And I thought I understood that, but as I watched Lestrade patiently bite his tongue more times than not, I realized that I didn't.

"Um, sure." I replied a second later when the detective opened the frosted glass door. He led me up a straight channel that gutted through rows of cubicles to another decently sized room with linoleum floors that (in contrast to St. Bartholomew's) could use a bit more cleaning, but weren't filthy. A round table with a few chairs was in the center of the room, and a full fridge was against the farthest wall that bled into the plastic-covered counter that held two pots of coffee, powdered creamer, and styrofoam cups.

"Regular or decaf?"

"Regular, thanks." _Definitely regular if I want to remain conscious for the remainder of this visit._

Lestrade filled a cup up with the black liquid, and passed it to me; he then repeated the action before pulling out a chair, and motioning for me to do the same. As soon as my back hit the chair, he started off.

"I don't know you, Elizabeth. I don't know what exactly is going through Sherlock's head right now either, so let me tell you what I _do_ know: he is going to push you and push you and push you until you've got nothing left to give him, and he'll still ask for more. He is going to alienate you from every personal aspect about himself, but he will wriggle his way into every seam of yours, until you won't know where you end and he begins. His mind has no heart, but his heart has no brain; so when he speaks his mind, he sounds heartless, and when he acts from his heart, he seems foolish. John may have told you these magical adventures he went on, but he didn't tell you the long nights, the fights, the seriously _fucked up_ situations they got into along the way." he paused for a drink. "That being said, Sherlock Holmes is a great man. He is brilliant, mad, and has a much greater understanding of people than all of the men on this force, including me. Sherlock Holmes is a _great_ man, and someday, if we're very, very lucky, he may even be a _good_ one."

I sat back, my fingers as tight around the styrofoam as they could without puncturing it, trying to repeat the words that Lestrade had just spewed everywhere. "Are you trying to scare me, Detective Inspector?" I asked stiffly, focusing my gaze on him and narrowing it until the tip of it was a dagger. The lump two inches below my heart was jumping furiously, and in the back of my mind I was afraid that Lestrade would see it through my shirt and scream. I was afraid that I would scream, too, and everyone would know I was also afraid of nightmares, of daydreams, of IEDs and suffocation and spiders. I was afraid of a lot of things, but Sherlock Holmes was not one of them.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes right back at me. Here he was, being loyal, in the best way he knew how. "I'm simply spelling out the situation you're getting yourself into." he replied light and casual. "If the belief that Sherlock is a great man will not get you through the day, I would suggest walking away now."

_I would suggest walking away now I would suggest walking away now I would suggest walking away now I would suggest walking away now I would suggest walking away now I would suggest walking away now I would suggest walking away now I would suggest walking away now I would suggest walking away now I would suggest walking away now - _

The lump twitched and a sudden fire engulfed my chest cavity as ice water filled my lungs to the point of pain. I was drowning in myself, while I burned to death, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

"No. All I've heard today from people is how I should just walk away, or that I don't know what I'm getting in to, like I am some sort of fucking _victim_. I have _seen things_, Sir, I have seen good men die and bad ones _walk away_ without a scratch. I have watched as innocent children get caught in the crossfire of bullets that are fueled by a hatred that isn't theirs. I have _felt_, god dammit I have _felt_ the life leave someone as I performed CPR. I have heard people screaming in victory, and I have heard them screaming in pain, begging for it to stop. I have been shot at, I have had people try to _blow me up_, and I have had to _walk away _from people who _needed my help_ and _let them die_ because they were beyond saving. So no, for the love of god, do not tell me that I should just _walk away_. I have spent a good portion of these last few years _walking away_ from a lot of things that most people can't concoct in their worst fucking nightmares, but I am _not _walking away from _this_."

And for the first time in ages, I felt lighter. Granted, my entire body was shaking and at some point I had slumped forward so my elbows were resting on the table, my coffee spilled everywhere, but I felt the toxic lump in my chest shrink ever so slightly. And to my surprise, Lestrade was smiling at me. We stared at each other for another five seconds (me, shaking; him, smiling) before he quietly got up and threw a bunch of napkins on the tabletop before tossing me another cup. "Don't be afraid to stand up to him every now and then, like you just did. It makes for an unhealthy partnership." he said as I heaved myself out of the chair and leaned on the counter for support.

"Do you remember what kind of coffee Sherlock wanted?" he asked, as he mopped up the brown liquid with the napkins.

"Black with two sugars," I sighed, feeling the bone-crushing exhaustion swoop back in. It was as physically difficult as it was emotionally to talk about the things I had just vomited, which is probably why I _didn't_ talk about them.

"Looks like I'll be seeing more of you, then. Good luck, Elizabeth." Lestrade winked before slipping out of the break room and back into the office. It took me several minutes (and a few cups of coffee) to pull myself together enough to be able to show my face to anyone, but when I did, I had Sherlock's coffee in hand. He hadn't moved from his position when I had left.

I sat the coffee down on the desk, and he let out a huff before standing up and starting towards the door, completely disregarding the coffee. "I'll be in touch, Lestrade." he said without looking at the man. "Hungry?" he asked, opening the door once again.

* * *

Angelo's was a little hole in the wall restaurant by the looks of it, but Sherlock actually seemed rather happy to be unfolding himself from the cab and (once again) leaving me to pay. Considering I had paid twice today, my wallet was thankful that my stomach wasn't hungry for more than a soup or a salad.

Although the restaurant seemed like nothing special on the outside, it was warm and welcoming as soon as we stepped through the doors. A friendly man with olive skin and black hair laughing loudly when he saw Sherlock, embracing him in a tight hug. "Sherlock, my boy!" he exclaimed, obviously rather pleased to see the madman.

"Angelo." he smiled back.

"Anything you and your date want, on the house." Angelo beamed, his eyes scanning between myself and Sherlock as he grabbed two menus from the podium at the front.

"We're not a - " he immediately showed us to a table, and lit a candle. "Date." I finished half-heartedly. Why did everyone assume we were a couple? Men and women can be friends in the twenty-first century and not have it mean anything other than friendship!

All in all, the food was superb, the atmosphere was a pleasant change from crime scenes and hospitals and police stations, and I felt just a bit normal for once. It was a lovely way to end the day, to unwind and finally get relaxed.

However, Sherlock had other plans. "Baker Street isn't too far from here. We can walk, if you'd like." he said as he put on his coat and held the door for me again.

"Do you really need my 'expertise', Sherlock? Because you certainly haven't needed it all day." I asked, pulling my coat tighter around me as we headed up the damp sidewalk.

"A second set of eyes is extremely useful. Plus, this gives you a chance to get used to the flat if you actually wanted to move in." he replied.

Did I want to move in with Sherlock? I know it's what John wanted, and it was ideal if I was going to be his doctor and assistant, but still. I know I definitely didn't want to intrude on my parents' lives much longer, but I also wasn't sure how quickly they'd take to the idea of their (soldier, doctor, adult) daughter living with the 'man with the trench coat and a bad personality.' Family acceptance was not everything, mind you, but it _did_ make holidays a bit more enjoyable.

So that's how I ended up at 221B for the second time in twenty-four hours, tidying the flat as Sherlock applied three nicotine patches and tried to flop out on the couch. I snatched his forearm and peeled off two of the patches, much to his disdain.

"This is a three-patch problem!" he growled, trying to take the wadded up plastics from my hand.

"And since you're a genius, you get to solve it only using one." I countered, grabbing the box and wadding up the other patches. Sherlock let out an infuriated sound and proceeded to knock over a giant pile of books that I had just stacked up. "You can buy more when you learn to use them responsibly. Doctor's orders." I sighed as I tossed the patches in the bin and began stacking books up again, slowly but surely clearing a path so I could sit on the sofa since Sherlock was now pacing viciously about the room, and ironically through the pathways that I had made.

After a while, he picked up the violin that was sitting in an open case and began playing. The words in the book I had picked up were starting to blur, and my eyelids felt like bricks. It wasn't long before I finally gave in to the exhaustion I felt down to my bones, and closed my eyes, letting the music and low light lull me away to whatever disaster my subconscious had planned for me.

* * *

**The line, 'His mind has no heart, and his heart has no brain; when he speaks his mind, he sounds heartless, and when he acts from his heart, he seems foolish.' is a quote that I haven't been able to find the source of, but whoever said it or wrote it first is hereby given 100% credit. **


	8. Chapter 8

**SO I DECIDED TO LET YOU GUYS KNOW THIS TAKES PLACE DURING SERIES TWO (after I wrap up this case). Perhaps I should've mentioned that at the beginning...? Sorry.**

* * *

"No, no Mrs. Aplin, Elizabeth is perfectly alright. Seems that she fell asleep last night on the sofa." a deep voice echoed somewhere above me. My eyelids felt like lead rather than skin, but I did my best to peel them back, revealing Sherlock standing in front of the window with my mobile in his hand. My mind was too fuzzy with sleep to be alarmed or upset, and honestly I felt like going back to sleep and not waking up for a long, long time. I hadn't slept this well in _ages_, and judging by the light, it was much too early for it to end.

"Actually, she's up. Would you like to talk to her?"

_No, no, no Sherlock, I cannot deal with my (anxiety-ridden) mother right now - _My mobile was suddenly resting against my ear (Sherlock was kind enough to hold it for me, seeing as I was about as coordinated as a corpse), and sure enough, my mother's voice was coming from the other side.

"Elizabeth? Lizzy? Are you okay? Are you being held hostage?" she asked, obviously rather shaken. She probably hadn't slept a wink. I really should have called her.

"Hmm? M'yeah, m'fine... jus sleepy. Be home soon... oh, found a flat, so we'll discuss it..." I slurred, eyes slipping closed now and then. I was warm, comfortable, and my body was definitely not ready to give up on its need for sleep. "And no, m'not drugged. Jus woke up. Love you." I finished, pulling the knit blanket over my head (not sure how it got there or where it came from) and letting my eyes fall shut again.

What I presumed was several hours later, my body had decided that it had had enough rest, as well as enough of the sofa. Sherlock was in the kitchen, glued to a microscope. Even though I hadn't moved, he seemed to know (in his infuriating omnipotent way) that I was awake, and shifted his gaze so he could give me a strange glance-over.

"Your breathing changed, that's how I knew you were awake." he sighed, returning to the microscope.

"You could hear me breathing?" I asked, sitting up stiffly and stretching. "That's not creepy whatsoever."

"Don't flatter yourself; you were the only source of sound in the flat." he countered without missing a single beat. Despite the fact that it was definitely an insult, I actually laughed to myself quietly, because it was, in a Sherlock sort of way, funny.

"So can you read minds as well as solve murders?"

Sherlock gave away a tiny smile, and then said seriously, "No, I read body language. Thoughts aren't as private as the general public likes to believe, because their bodies betray them."

I nodded, agreeing with him silently. Lestrade hadn't lied when he said Sherlock had a deeper understanding of people than anyone he had ever met, and I was starting to think the same way. It was truly impressive that Sherlock could seemingly take wild (correct) accusations out of thin air, but when he broke them down, they made perfect, logical sense. He wasn't a superhero, he was just a magnifying glass in a Belstaff. "You could be a magician, you know. You'd fool the 'general public' without much effort." I noted, folding the knit blanket and setting it on the opposite end of the sofa, and then standing up to retrieve my phone on the mantle.

"_Dull._"

"How is that dull?"

"I find most of the general public to be dull individuals. The twenty-first century needs a plague."

"From what I've gathered, you find _everyone_ dull, so that's not a viable excuse."

"I don't find you dull."

My lips quirked into a small, soft smile, and decided that the subject wasn't really worth arguing over. I could try arguing medicine with Sherlock - the one area I know best, mind you - and he would _still_ find some way to have the last word. Plus there was something oddly flattering about the madman with nicotine patches finding me not dull, even though he despised the world for it. So instead, I left the conversation at that, grabbed my mobile, and headed for the door.

"Going home. Text me if you need me." I called out before trotting down the seventeen stairs and out onto Baker Street.

* * *

I was expecting my mother reacted more emotionally when I stepped inside her house than when she picked me up from the airport all those weeks ago. She hadn't changed from her clothes that she wore yesterday morning, and her eyes had dark circles under them. I was expecting her to start screaming, or chastising me for my irresponsible behavior, but instead she kissed my forehead and went upstairs, the bedroom door barely making a click.

"She refused to go to bed until you came home." my father said from behind his newspaper. I shifted my feet awkwardly on the carpet, toeing off my shoes in the process, and sitting across from him in the oversized recliner. "You're an adult, Lizzy, we get that. You don't need us, not really. Actually, you've never really needed us, even as a kid. You always had it together, y'know?" he lowered his paper and stared at me for a long, unwavering minute. That was the nice thing about time: it was a constant. It didn't wait for anyone. "But then Emma left, you went off to fight for Queen and country, and your mother... she just didn't know what to do. She _hated_ herself, Lizzy; she thought _she_ was the reason Emma ran off and that you enlisted. Can you picture hating yourself that much?"

_Yes, Dad,_ I thought queasily. _I can. You don't even know the half of it._

"And then you get shot, come home, and you're different. I get that, really."

"I'm not different, Dad." I lied, trying to reassure him. "I'm still Elizabeth Aplin. I still have your eyes and Mum's hair and granddad's nose, I just have a scar on my chest now, too."

He laughed, folding his paper in half and tossing it aside. "No, you're definitely different. When you think no one can see you, you're sad. You've seen things that neither your mother or I can understand, not really, and that doesn't help any. I want you to know that I understand that _we don't understand_ what happened back in Afghanistan. But we're _trying_ to be there for you in spite of that. So, what I'm trying to get at here, is that even though you're an adult, and a doctor and an ex-soldier, we need you to try with us too. Even if it's as simple as ringing to tell us you're not coming home for the evening while you're staying here."

I thought I understood that when I came back, no one would understand that they _didn't_ get it. I thought I understood that I would be alone, bearing unspeakable things, simply because it is a common fact that people have a tendency to overestimate their capacity for understanding. But in truth, I underestimated just how vastly human beings were capable of understanding, even if it was admitting that they themselves _did not_ understand. And I thought I understood this, but I obviously didn't.

My father took his newspaper in hand once more, flipping it open and resuming his reading. "And do try to call us now and again when you've moved out. Which, according to your phone call this morning, is pretty soon." he added. I took this as my cue to go upstairs so I could bathe and change clothes. I was halfway up the flight before my father cleared his throat, and I froze in my place. "Oh and Lizzy? I love you."

"I love you too, Dad."

* * *

I was in the process of blow drying my hair when the screen on my mobile lit up.

**Solved the case. Dull. - SH**

I smiled and pulled a brush through my hair before turning the dryer back on. I received more texts right as it started up.

**The nanny did it. ****- SH**

**Would you happen to have any knowledge of china? - SH**

**Just one aspect that's a little funny on this one. - SH**

**Sherlock, please just let me finish my hair.**

**Why? It's just hair. - SH**

**Oh, so those curls of yours are just natural?**

**Yes. Why wouldn't they be? - SH**

**I hate you, you know that?**

**Most people do. - SH**

I once again gave up trying to argue with Sherlock Holmes, finished drying my hair, and began packing the few belongings I had. If I was really going to go through with this insane plan and move in to 221B, I figured the sooner the better, especially since it was a bit pathetic that I was still living with my parents. I loved them, they loved me, but I needed to start my life, and find a clinic that was hiring.

So after dropping a quick kiss on my father's cheek as I pulled on my coat, I started out into London once more. I wasn't sure if I was heading to a clinic or if I was heading to Baker Street, but I knew that I'd end up where I needed to be in the end. However, what I wasn't expecting was for a black car to pull up to the curb, and a tall, thin man with an umbrella to step out. He had a sharp nose and chilly eyes, and a three-piece suit that screamed business.

"Elizabeth Aplin." he said plainly, leaning on his umbrella in an amused fashion.

"Yes?" I replied cautiously.

"Come with me, please." he continued, waving his hand towards the open car door. What I should have done was run in the opposite direction, screaming for help. Stranger danger, or something along those lines. But instead, I rooted my feet and simply asked, "Why?"

The man smiled, albeit a forced, calculating one. "We both concern ourselves with Sherlock Holmes, shouldn't we be on the same page?"

* * *

**SO GUYS I DID A THING AND I SHOULDN'T HAVE AND I WANT TO TELL YOU BUT AT THE SAME TIME I SHOULDN'T BECAUSE UGH I JUST WROTE A FUTURE CHAPTER AND I WANT TO SHARE IT RIGHT NOW BUT I CAN'T. THIS IS FRUSTRATING.**


	9. Chapter 9

**My GPA: if you finish the psychology paper, you can write chapter nine. Guess who finished it and is currently writing on 2 hours of sleep?**

* * *

"Are you from the police?" I inquired, trying to buy myself a little more time before finally facing the question: to get in the car, or not to get in the car. The man eyed his umbrella curiously, and then picked it up and began to twirl it. "God no," he replied after a moment or two. "They're all idiots."

And if _that_ didn't sound familiar, then I would be donned an idiot as well.

"Relative, then? Of Sherlock's, I mean."

The man's face lit up. "Good. John didn't seem to catch on that fast. Mycroft Holmes."

"And can you do that magic trick as well?"

"It's not a magic trick, Elizabeth. Magic tricks are an illusion, observations are reality." he tsk'd, tapping the black rubber tip of the umbrella against the sidewalk. "What is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock?"

"A private one, thank you very much." I snapped, folding my arms across my chest. Apparently Sherlock Holmes was a big deal, and everyone was curious as to who was the new companion. Honestly, I was beginning to feel like a _Doctor Who_ cast member dealing with skeptical fans (at least that's what I had gathered from Emily).

Mycroft simply narrowed his intelligent eyes at me and forced yet another smile. Something about him was dangerous; underneath the expensive three-piece, polished Italian leather, and oddly fitting umbrella, Mycroft gave off a Big Brother sort of quality that made me more than a bit uneasy. "You've known him for a little over a day and you're already moving in? You're not the sort to rush... in fact, you've never had a serious relationship, despite the fact that you are obviously very loyal very quick. So what _is_ all of this about?"

"You're the genius, you tell me. Have a good day." I sneered, curtsying for effect before continuing on my way.

"We'll be in touch, Dr. Aplin."

* * *

I was trying to shake my encounter with Mycroft Holmes when I got a text from Sherlock. It was simply an address, and I figured it was implied that I go (another case?). So I plunked along London until I was standing outside of a clinic; through the glass front I could tell it was full of children with a cold, elderly with arthritis, and middle-aged adults waiting for their annual physical.

**Sarah has your ****resumé. Go to the front desk and say you have an interview. - SH**

**How did you get my resumé exactly?**

**The pompous man you just encountered can be useful now and then. - SH**

_Note to self: you _definitely_ will be in touch with Mycroft again._

So I did exactly as Sherlock said, because I am a complete and total moron who is blindly following orders. I went up to the front desk and quietly said, "I have an interview with Sarah."

The secretary gave me a surprised smile, and then opened a side door that led back into the administrative offices. We passed the break room, which seemed nice enough, and kept walking until we reached a large door that had a plaque with _Sarah Sawyer_ engraved on it. The secretary knocked twice, and then let herself in, revealing a tired (yet pretty) woman in a doctor's coat with a sandwich hanging out of her mouth in mid-bite.

"Elizabeth Aplin is here for her interview."

"Oh god, sorry!" Sarah mumbled around the food as she hastily chewed, swallowed, and sat her lunch down. "Should've known not to try and squeeze in a lunch break. Please, have a seat. Thank you, Tracy." she smiled at the secretary, which was obviously her subtle cue for, _You may return to your work station now._

I sat in one of the plastic chairs that had landed in front of her desk, and suddenly my mouth was dry. I hadn't prepared for an interview since I was in secondary school, and honestly had no idea how this was going to go. I was also still a little angry at Sherlock for intruding on my life to this degree at such a quick speed, but I was also remembering what Lestrade had told me at the Yard yesterday afternoon. At this specific moment, I felt like my life had become a very, very sensitive balancing act, and here I was, about to mess it all up.

"So I was looking through your resumé and I must say... you're a bit overqualified for the job. In fact, this is almost identical to one of my former employee's: army doctor, impressive schooling. Won't you be a bit bored?" Sarah asked, leaning forward on her elbows.

I don't know why she had to ask _that_ question, because it was a stupid one. Of _course_ I was going to be bored; I was going to be bored to absolute fucking tears. But I also had my share of rent to pay, so that helped bring things into perspective. Not everyone got to be a Sherlock Holmes and run around playing detective and mad scientist. Some of us had to go out into society and find acceptable jobs that didn't result in the flat being a mess that I was going to start cleaning (Sherlock gets to help).

But instead I just replied, "Change of pace will be refreshing. Cases will be different."

"Anything else you can do?" she smiled, adding sarcasm for effect.

"Play piano." I retorted, deadpan. Sarah laughed, and I returned a smile. "Probably rubbish at it now, though. Been years."

"Just out of curiosity, do you know a John Watson? I mean, I know it's a million and one chan - "

"I served with him, yes." And that really _was_ a one-in-a-million chance, because the possibilities of a random stranger also knowing John were astronomically not in my favor. So how in the world did a random doctor at a clinic happen to know John?

"When does he come back from tour? He worked here before he joined back up, and it'd be a shame if we didn't get him back. Brilliant doctor, really. Ran around with a bloke named Sherlock, so he sometimes flaked though."

My eyes widened. "John used to work here?"

Sarah nodded, and I stood up so quickly that I nearly knocked over the chair I had been sitting in. "I'm sorry, I have to go. I want the job of course, but... I, er, it's complicated." I said in a rush, giving Sarah my best apologetic glance before all but running out the door. As soon as I was out of the clinic, I _did_ start running, and I didn't stop until I was standing in front of 221B.

I rang the bell and pounded on the door until Mrs. Hudson answered, and then I darted past her and up the seventeen stairs, taking two at a time. She called something out to me, but I was too emotional to properly hear it. I just needed to get to Sherlock and set a few things straight. When I reached the door, I didn't bother knocking, I just walked in, completely unannounced. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, book in his hands. He didn't even acknowledge my presence.

"Really? The _same_ clinic?" I demanded, stomping into his line of sight. Still, no response or acknowledgement. The outer lines of my vision were slowly staining red. "Look Sherlock, I'm _not_ John. I am not going to compete with the ghost of him, either. So if this is some sort of experiment to make me - "

Something caught my eye and silenced all of the words that I had formed in my mouth. At the dip of Sherlock's throat sat John's dog tags, and curled under his unruly black hair was John's uniform jacket, rolled up as a pillow. I also noticed that the waterlines of his eyes were red and slightly inflamed, and once I noticed that I couldn't stop myself from feeling the insatiable urge to curl Sherlock into a world where he would feel okay. It was easy to forget that I wasn't the only one trying to cope with John's death, especially when Sherlock was so good at pretending to be a machine. I thought I understood that everyone coped with things differently, that the way I experienced things was not the same for someone else. But now, as I was seeing Sherlock reading a book with John around his neck and supporting his head, I realized that I didn't.

After a beat or two of silence, Sherlock snapped the book shut and simply asked, "Did you say something?"

My anger and my argument were still on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed them for the moment. This speech could wait until tomorrow, when I wasn't so worked up, and when Sherlock wasn't so... emotional (I don't know what else to call it).

"Yeah. Just asked when you were going to get off your lazy arse and help me pick up this flat. It's uninhabitable, Sherlock, really." I replied, feeling the red from my vision recede, the lump in my chest twitch uncomfortably, but the compassion and understanding for another human being grow ever so slightly.

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**ugh so dissatisfied with this. must. edit. but. must. sleep.**


	10. Chapter 10

**It's the weekend. Instead of partying (or studying), I'm writing this. Because the club can't even handle me. Just kidding, I can't handle crowds. But I enjoy being alone; I like eating alone, drinking coffee alone, writing alone, playing in the practice rooms alone. But as I'm watching couples across campus, I realize that while I enjoy being alone, I do not enjoy being lonely. So here's chapter ten, darlings.**

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After much convincing (holding Sherlock's microscope out of the window as he growled and threatened to kill me), Sherlock begrudgingly began helping me make some sense of his insane flat. There was a lot of unorthodox communication (noncommittal sounds, groans, yelling) over a few things, especially when I tried to throw away a thick stack of papers that all had product information about the same brand and pattern of china.

"It's _important_." Sherlock hissed, snatching the stack away from me before I could drop it into the bag I was holding.

"What on _earth_ could be important about Lenox's 'Sapphire Plume' collection?" I demanded, snatching it back. "It's _hideous_, Sherlock. And if you were thinking about buying it, well I simply cannot allow it. My _mother_ has had this exact pattern probably longer than the both of us have been alive."

He stiffened at that, his silver eyes fading into a vacant, retreated stare on the paper in my hand. Something was incredibly unsettling about it, and it was the only thing keeping me from throwing it away while Sherlock was still too far in his own head to notice. "It is rather ugly, isn't it? Just throw it out." he agreed.

"Gladly." I replied, watching carefully as he began quietly transferring books from the scattered piles to the bookshelf behind the desk. Sherlock had found something of interest in what I had said, and the fact that he had tried to brush it off raised several red flags in my mind. He was brilliant and he knew it, and in the short time I had known him, he hadn't passed up the opportunity to show off his brilliance to anyone who would willingly (or unwillingly) listen. So while his back was turned, I slipped the stack into one of the kitchen chairs, and continued binning obscene (biohazard) findings in the fridge.

A few hours later, I collapsed into the chair opposite of Sherlock's. Now that it was habitable, 221B was actually a lovely, quaint flat. Minus the atrocious wallpaper that had a spray painted and bullet-riddled smiley face just above the left side of the couch, it was cozy, and the thought of moving in seemed easier. Sherlock, however, was sulking in his chair, knees tucked under his chin.

"We need to talk about a few things," I began once Sherlock had managed to make eye contact with me. Not surprisingly, he let out a devastated groan.

"What is it with people and your incessant need for _talking_?"

"Hey, _I_ don't talk a lot of the time, I listen to _you_ and _your _incessant need to hear your own voice. So don't even start on that. Today, though, _we_ just happen to have several things discuss." I shot back sourly. He simply responded with a bored huff, and I faintly recalled what drill sergeants would do with the stubborn members in basic training. They'd puff out their chest, get in their faces, yell, the usual. Sherlock's entire life probably consisted of drill sergeants, so yelling my point across would only cause him to dig his toes in and refuse to budge. So I tried something else.

I sat forward on the edge of the chair, rolling my shoulders back and straightening my spine, pushing my hips forward slightly so that I was positioned on my 'sitting bones' (as my piano instructor had called them all those years ago), and then crossed my legs in the most delicate fashion I could muster up (the army had a way of burying delicate acts in foreign sand). It was a subtle act, but I also knew it was a feminine one that also made me appear as the central figure in the room.

It worked almost instantly, because Sherlock gave me a hateful glare, but his attention was nonetheless on me. "I know what you were trying to be helpful with the interview, but I would be lying if I said it made me feel like you were trying to turn me into John. I need you to respect that I am not him, and that I won't try to compete with the ghost of him either. We will either make this arrangement work as the two of us, not as you and John number two. Which leads me into the next topic of living arrangements - "

"There's an extra bedroom upstairs that was John's. His sister came by and emptied most of it out, but left several things for me 'to keep.' I don't know why, but I understand that it has something to do with _sentiment_." he spat out the word like it was venom, and I couldn't help but think how ironic it was, considering he was still wearing John's dog tags.

"Mind if I go take a look?" I asked, rising from my seat. He jerked his thumb in the general direction, but said no more than that. I shrugged and left him alone to sulk some more as I trudged up the small staircase. It felt like I was intruding a bit, like I was a stranger that was snooping around. At the top of the stairs was a plain door, and even though it was just a door, I couldn't keep my hand from shaking slightly. Some insane part of my mind thought I would open the door to see John sitting on his bed, giving me a quizzical look as to why I was waltzing into his bedroom.

But there was no John, and the bed was a bare mattress. His closet was still ajar, and I could see a few worn, comfortable-looking jumpers and shirts. In its entirety, the room looked haphazardly naked, as if someone had gutted the contents deliberately in a messy fashion so they could leave traces behind. I walked around, trying to focus on visualizing how I would use the space instead of thinking that this is where my dead friend slept.

_"I have a notebook in my nightstand that you can use..."_

No. It was impossible. Surely his sister had taken that, or Sherlock had thrown it out, or that it just didn't exist at all. But that still didn't curb my curiosity, so I broke and opened the top drawer of the bare nightstand. It was empty. I opened the second drawer, and it was empty as well. The third, however, contained a leather journal, and I couldn't oppress the joy I felt; it was a silent sign that I was going in the right direction with my (hasty) decisions, that I wasn't insane.

So, naturally, I planted myself on the mattress and carefully peeled back the cover to reveal the title page. In scribbled ink, it simply read: "The Proper Handling and Care of Sherlock Holmes: A Survival Guide." A small giggle escaped my lips, trying to ease the sudden pressure in my chest as I flipped to the first page, and began reading.

_Hello. If you're reading this, it means I'm dead._

_God, that's the most overused line in the act of leaving hidden things for people to find, but I will admit that I'm pleased I decided to use it, in spite of its weathered effect. My therapist would be over the moon to know that I really _am_ writing, but less than ecstatic to know it's for this purpose. Anyway, if you're reading this (whoever you are), it means I entrusted you with one of the world's most valuable possessions: my best friend and the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. Did you know he claims to have invented the job? Surely you do, he probably rambled that off already. Anyway, this is for your use so you can properly handle and care for him, since I obviously can no longer do it._

_You're going to go on some crazy adventures, you know. It'll be hell, too, but I promise that it will be some of the most exciting times of your life. Just keep him away from the consulting criminal and darkened pools. Are you ready?_

_P.S. Never, _ever_ buy or give him cigarettes. He kicked the habit (finally), but abuses the nicotine patches. Please keep an eye on their use._

My eyes were a bit watery, but I wiped them on my sleeve and tucked some hair behind my ear. I chuckled at the post-script, because I definitely had an eye on the madman's usage of nicotine patches, ever since the first night when he had five of them plastered to his skin. But what got me, what pulled on my heart strings and the spider webs on my toxic lump, was the way he talked about Sherlock. Like he was some hidden light that the world was unaware that it had. It also transported me back to the first night I met John, when we sat out in the desert with a bottle of whiskey and shared a cigarette; it was the first night I learned of Sherlock, and John had mentioned that he had just kicked the habit, and wondered what Sherlock would think if he found him smoking.

I turned the page.

_Sherlock has a bad habit of not eating, especially when he's on a case. Coincidentally, he also has a bad habit of storing biohazards and body parts in the fridge. There are labeled tupperware in a box beneath the sink so he can store his experiments in there without contaminating everything else. There's also a list of Sherlock's favorite dishes underneath the seat cushion of my chair... you've probably figured out which one that is by now. I thought about putting the recipe list as a document on my laptop, but Sherlock would've gotten into that faster than I'd care to know, and Harry will probably take it after the funeral. I know it sounds like I'm hiding these things, and I am, because there's no telling what will take place while I'm away, and I don't want them to be destroyed in an experiment._

_He also doesn't sleep healthy amounts on his own, so I left a bottle of melatonin pills (5 mg) for you to use at your medical discretion. One usually does the trick. Inversely, I left a bottle of caffeine pills for you to use since you will probably be pulling a few all-nighters when an especially interesting case is on._

I continued reading, page after page, no longer trying to keep my face dry. (I had no idea who Harry was, but I figured it had to be a relative. Brother, maybe? It didn't matter.) Good men like John didn't deserve to die, and the toxic lump gave a contented hum as my warped mind fed it radioactive fuel. Even now he was still trying to help others; good god, it must be exhausting to not be able to rest even in death. I pulled myself together and decided that I had done enough reading today, but I flipped back to the first page, tracing my index finger curiously over the phrase "Just keep him away from the consulting criminal and darkened pools." What on earth did that mean? Who was 'the consulting criminal?'

Worrying the corner of my lower lip, I snapped the journal shut and returned it to its rightful place, and then took one more glance around the room. I could work with this.

* * *

It took a while for me to get completely settled into 221B even though I didn't have many possessions (clingy parents), but by Halloween I was on a first-name basis with Mrs. Hudson, who was the landlady ('not our housekeeper') and Lestrade (did you know his first name is Greg?), and Sherlock didn't have to help me navigate around the kitchen cupboards. Surprisingly, living with Sherlock wasn't as awkward as I had expected it to be. There were no naked run-ins in the bathroom as one of us was getting out of the shower like the movies portrayed, and we didn't shag on the kitchen table (it was covered in petri dishes anyway). In fact, as Sherlock took more and more cases, the more acclimated we became with each other (Sherlock to my nightmares and anxiety attacks, me to Sherlock's random bouts of sulking, musical tendencies at random hours, and endless periods of silence). I was _comfortable_ in the once inhabitable flat, making tea every morning before work at the clinic (I accepted Sarah's offer).

Mycroft came around now and then, and those were the days that Sherlock was nearly insufferable. In fact, more days than not, Sherlock did something that got underneath my skin (one time he caused me to get a splinter and took the whole thing to a literal level). But there were also times that Sherlock was unbelievably gentle, and those were the days that made the others worth sticking around for.

If I had a particularly bad nightmare (the ones where I woke up screaming and disoriented and reaching desperately for my gun), I would always hear soothing lullabies being drawn out from the strings of his violin a few minutes later, and they never ended until I lost consciousness.

Sometimes Sherlock had what John had referred to as black moods, where he was absolutely horrid. At first, I had no idea what to do with him in these cases, especially after a long day at the (boring) clinic. But one night he threw himself onto the sofa and curled into a furious ball, yelling that 'I was the biggest moron the world had ever seen,' and that 'I was a mediocre doctor' because I wouldn't give him more than two nicotine patches and more than 800 mg of over the counter pain medication for his headache (we had gotten into a fight with criminals... again). However, I also wanted to watch BBC, so I forced myself a spot next to him on the sofa. When he head-butted my hip in protest, I placed his head in my lap and carded my fingers through his hair. At first, he verbalized his displeasure and all but bit my wrist, but after twenty minutes or so, he was limp and comatose, face pressed into my shirt.

Getting him to eat and sleep was _still_ a work in progress, but that was to be expected. I also found myself stitching him up at least once a week, and sometimes (more than I would have liked) I was even stitching myself up. I was waiting for the day that I would have to set a bone for one of us, but I didn't dread the thought. Living with Sherlock was an insane, exhausting, _exhilarating_ ride; the lump in my chest had shrunk slightly, not much, but it no longer threatened to glow through my shirt and expose itself to everyone who dared look at me.

The honest truth was that as quickly as I had gotten myself wrapped up in the hurricane of Sherlock, I had adjusted to him and our lifestyle just as quickly. I was used to the random, vague texts; sometimes they were endearingly mundane, such as "Pick up milk from Tesco's. - SH", and those were the ones that I found myself grinning at. I was used to showing up to the clinic on no sleep and without a proper shower (thank god for dry shampoo). I was used to running around London at night, watching Sherlock as all the pieces fell together in his head, and I was used to getting into fights (or getting shot at, lunged at with a knife) with the criminals we were chasing.

I kept waiting for the day that I would find out who the mysterious 'consulting criminal' was that John had written so much about (he never gave a name), but as far as I knew, we hadn't dealt with him yet. In fact, there weren't many people that we hadn't dealt with, but I was more than surprised when Mycroft's infamous black car magically appeared outside of the clinic at the end of my shift, and I was driven to Buckingham Palace.

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**I feel like this chapter is a giant sack of what. Sorry my dears, I'm in an odd mood. :/ I hope you like it though.**


	11. Chapter 11

**SO. I was thinking about having a little poll next chapter if you guys are down (or up) for it. I'm going to compile a list of songs that could be the official song of this story, throw it in the AN at the bottom of next chapter, and you guys decide, yeah? Oh, and this is dedicated to ****_harliesue_**** because she's been my wonderful cheerleader this entire time. She's a great writer, go check her stuff out.**

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I was escorted through a side door in the palace, thoroughly checked, and then was led to a large sitting room with two ornate (uncomofortable-looking) sofas with a coffee table in between, adorned with two crystal ashtrays. It wasn't a mystery as to _who_ wanted me here, but _why_ they wanted me here. I wasn't receiving some military honor, and Sherlock wasn't here, so nothing was adding up. My only thought was that Mycroft definitely had something to do with this, so I sent Sherlock a few texts.

**Any idea why I'm at Buckingham Palace in my scrubs?**

**Because you didn't change into your street clothes before leaving. - SH**

I tried to wipe an appreciative grin off of my face before replying.

**Don't be a smart arse.**

**Well I'm being escorted by Mycroft's little elf, so probably a case. Don't be dull. - SH**

**The royal family needs us for a case?**

**I said not to be dull, Elizabeth. - SH**

No. No bloody way. The royal family just... _there was no fucking way that we were doing a case for the royal family of England._ My heart was racing like I was a teenager again - I always had a tiny, significant, giant crush on Prince Harry, and the fact that we were freaking consulting on a case and I was sitting in Buckingham Palace was just... ugh.

"Care for a glass of water, Elizabeth?"

I looked up to see Mycroft standing on the opposite side of the coffee table, his hands tucked delicately the pockets of his trousers so not to ruin a single seam. He honestly looked at ease in the setting, as if he thought that this was where he really belonged, but because of blood he could never attain it.

"I'm fine, thanks. What's all of this about?" I inquired, trying to gulp down my schoolgirl nerves and act like a (boring) professional adult. Mycroft gave me two glances and then made a devastated expression. "A crush on Prince Harry? How... mundane of you." he sighed before sinking into the seat opposite of the empty space beside me. Usually I would snap something back, but I have always been a bit sensitive about _those_ kind of feelings, even simple crushes on royal blood. So I blushed and settled further into the ornate (uncomfortable) cushions.

I admired the decor of the room; it was a bit much for my taste, but even I had to admit that it definitely fit the atmosphere and purpose of the room, which was to show off. Even the ashtrays were beautiful; the cut of the crystal refracted the light into small rainbow stains across the wood coffee table, making them appear delicate and dainty, even though they probably weighed a good bit.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Mycroft's discontented voice pulled me out of my haze to find Sherlock crossing in front of me (presumably) in nothing but a bed sheet. I bit my lip to hold in a sudden burst of laughter that threatened to spill out of my mouth and anger Mycroft even more. The entire situation was incredibly inappropriate, but that was what made it so... Sherlock.

"Mycroft." he spat back.

Mycroft made a sound akin to a snarl, turned on his polished heel, and stormed out of the room. I could faintly hear Anthea's voice somewhere within the corridors, and Mycroft's muffled disdain. My eyes cautiously slid over to Sherlock, who was now sitting beside me, eyes trained forward and expression bored as always. His hair looked alright, but I could tell that he hadn't properly combed it; it was one of those things that you picked up about someone after living with them for a while. He had probably been dragged out of bed, because we solved a 'simple' case last night, and Sherlock crashed after staying up for three consecutive days, despite my numerous attempts to make him take cat naps.

"Are you... wearing any trousers?" I asked after a few moments, lips betraying me and pulling up into a small smile.

"Mmm... _no_."

We were both deathly silent for two seconds before we were giggling like idiots, trying to hush ourselves before Mycroft or someone important came back in.

"Holy hell, Sherlock. We're in Buckingham Palace, you have no shorts, and I'm fighting the impulse to steal an ashtray." I sighed as footsteps came closer, and scrubbed my hands through my hair. It had lightened some since I came back to London, but I didn't mind it. It fit me a bit better, I suppose, because I didn't feel like I was the walking replica of my mother from the hairline up. A few seconds later, Mycroft was walking into the room with an older gentlemen, and carrying a stack of clothes. He plopped them in front of Sherlock, and then the two of them sat opposite of us, with Mycroft _glaring_ at his younger brother.

"Why am I here and who is my client?" Sherlock asked, losing all trace of humor he had to his voice just seconds before.

"Look where you are and make a deduction." Mycroft ground out, forcing out a tight-lipped smile. I had to admire the fact that Mycroft knew how to keep himself together even when everything was falling apart in his mind. And I thought I understood how to do this as well, from living with my parents when I first returned, to keeping my hands steady at the clinic when I was on the verge of an anxiety attack. But as I watched Mycroft keep himself together again and again no matter what Sherlock did, I realized that I didn't understand it. Self-control was an admirable trait, and far too few people had it nowadays.

Sherlock let out his signature put-upon sigh, and Mycroft simply chirped, "You could learn from Elizabeth. She seems to be delighted to be here."

"Yes, but she's excited because she fancies Prince Harry."

The older gentlemen smiled at me and said, "So you fancy the prince, then?"

My face was flushed and burning, and I couldn't pretend that I wasn't dying to crawl under a rock, far from critical eyes. "Okay can we all stop talking about how I fancy Prince Harry and get on to business here?!" I asked, feeling as if every liter of blood was currently inhabiting my face.

"Seriously, though, a prince? That's so... mundane of you. I told you not to be dull." Sherlock continued, voice deep and flat, giving nothing away. I flicked his ear for good measure.

"They fight like a married couple, don't they?" Mycroft chided to his colleague, who simply laughed.

"We do _not_!" I replied quickly, but Sherlock actually smiled to himself, and then said, "How's the diet, Mycroft?"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we got back on track. Of course it resulted in the Holmes brothers giving each other such harsh looks that even I was worried that they'd jump at each other a few times. However, they remained seated and collected, avoiding conversation with each other.

"My client has a situation they would like resolved, involving an Irene Adler." the gentleman explained, fiddling with the manila envelope in his hands.

"And what situation are we looking at?"

"Some photographs with Ms. Adler and a certain female member of the family."

"Compromising, I presume."

"Extremely." he said, embarrassed, and handing Sherlock the folder. He opened it up and flipped through the photographs too quickly for my eyes to register anything, but he stopped on a single photo that had a stunning woman with dark hair, piercing eyes, and red lips. She was naked, but her back was turned towards the camera, leaving everything except for her face that was turned over her shoulder to the imagination.

"She calls herself The Dominatrix."

"Obviously. Her motto is '_Know when you've been beaten_'. So you have the photographs, I assume she has copies, what do you want me to do about it? It's a power play, just give her what she wants." Sherlock carelessly tossed the photographs on the table and stood up in one graceful motion, keeping his sheet tucked around his body. Mycroft stepped on the train, and the sheet fell from his body, but he quickly kept it from going past his waist. I adverted my eyes immediately, because it felt odd to see so much of Sherlock's skin, and because I figured he would want a sliver of privacy.

"Get off my sheet!" Sherlock yelled, though it was very obvious from the sound of his voice that he was trying to keep from screaming.

"No." Mycroft retorted firmly.

"Fine. Then I'll walk away."

"I'll let you."

"Boys," I cut in, peeking to make sure Sherlock was decent before actually looking forward. "Can we not do this here?"

"Sherlock Holmes, you are in Buckingham Palace, the heart of the British empire, now for _God's sake, put your clothes on_." Mycroft bit, signaling for me to grab the still-folded stack of cloth on the coffee table. I did so, gave them to Sherlock, who nearly had steam coming out of his ears as he was led to a separate room to change.

When he reappeared, he was dressed in his usual attire. "We'll be in touch. Laters." he said, giving the gentleman who had spoken to us a two-fingered salute, and then turning to leave. I stayed long enough to give him a real goodbye (and apology), and then ran after Sherlock, who was (once again) magically hailing a cab. He opened the door, I climbed in, and we sat in silence for a few minutes, going to some destination unknown to me.

"Did you said 'laters?'" I asked, breaking the ice.

"I did." he looked out the window, and I smirked. "Oh, almost forgot," he added suddenly, reaching into his breast pocket to reveal a crystal ashtray. I gaped at him and then immediately began laughing again, because Jesus Christ, today was just a bizarre day, and it kept getting better. Sherlock simply grinned at me before tucking it safely away in his breast pocket again.

"You stole an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. Dear god, you're mad." I managed after I caught my breath.

"Just getting that now? Besides, _you're_ the one who wanted it, remember?"

And I _did_ remember, which is what made it so much better, because I had seriously doubted if Sherlock had actually been listening to me at all. There were a lot of times that I wondered if Sherlock could actually hear me, but I had always chalked it up to him being inside his own head, so he never replied. But he _had_ heard me, and he actually stole the bloody thing because _I _had mentioned that I was 'fighting the impulse to steal an ashtray.'

I thought I understood Sherlock for the most part, but I did not.

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**So yeah, we get to go through the Scandal case. Prepare for lots of ****angsting! Well, I dunno. Maybe angst. Fuck it, there will be at least one chapter of hard-core angst, because it's what I live for. But this was a nice filler... right? Maybe? I dunno. I've been in such a bizarre mood these past few days it's really unreal.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Basically I was all but hyperventilating as I wrote this, trying again and again to get it right. I have no idea if I succeeded.**

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"Stop here." Sherlock commanded as the cab turned down a residential street. The cabbie did as instructed, and Sherlock handed him the correct amount (for once) and ushered me out of the backseat and down a small alley between buildings. I was confused, but I knew that whatever Sherlock did he did with purpose, so it included this.

"Okay," he sighed, rubbing his hands together and doing a quick perimeter check. "We're two streets away, this should do."

"Why are we here?" I asked.

"Punch me in the face."

"What?"

"I said, 'Punch me in the face,' didn't you hear me?" he demanded, falling into a balanced posture; he was expecting an impact, but there was no way I was just going to punch him in the face. That was ridiculous. I mean, yes, I _always_ heard 'Punch me in the face.' whenever Sherlock was speaking, but it was usually subtext. I told him as much, and he rolled his eyes before looking me dead in the face and saying, "God dammit, Elizabeth, I am asking you to hit me."

"No." I retorted, because I wasn't going to. This was stupid, and I didn't even know _why_ he wanted me to punch him in the face.

"You are such a _wimp_, Prince Harry would never go for a girl like you - " he growled.

Well. I mean, he _did_ want me to punch him in the face, and he just happened to say the right thing to get exactly what he wanted. I had a thick skin about a lot of things, but those sorts of feelings were triggers for me. I didn't like having schoolgirl crushes on people, especially people who could never fancy me in the same sort of way, because they were pointless. They just took up all of this room in your heart and made you act irrationally. And the pain of unrequited feelings eventually twisted into a special form of hatred that sat two inches below your ribs, making you feel heavy and slow in everything that you did. Yes, _those_ sorts of feelings (even schoolgirl crushes) were things I did _not_ like to talk about, and I didn't like having people make fun of them either.

So, I did exactly as Sherlock asked, and punched him in the face hard enough that a trickle of blood ran out of a minuscule cut I'd left. He cursed silently, I flexed my fingers in pain (holy shit, I should _not_ have aimed for the cheekbones), and right as Sherlock regained his balance, I tackled him to the ground.

"I asked you to hit me, not tackle me!"

"You cannot just say things like that to a _soldier_, Sherlock!" I yelled back, twisting underneath him as he flipped us over in an attempt to pin me. Fortunately, my muscles still remembered a few things from basic training, and I shoved the heel of my hand under his chin, forcing his head back, locked my legs around his waist, and pulled to my left side, effectively rolling us over so I had the upper hand. From there, it was easy. My knees found the inside of Sherlock's elbows, and I grabbed his flailing wrists and pinned them to the asphalt. He stared up at me in a cocktail of anger and impression; I stared down at him in a flurry of anger and frustration, with just a tiny bit of hurt buried down deep.

"I thought you were a doctor." he mused after half of a second.

"I had bad days." I mused back, patting his injured cheek as I got off of him, and extended a hand to help him up. "Now what are we doing?"

"Paying Ms. Adler a visit." he explained, starting off towards the main road again. We walked until we reached a white house with giant pillars. Sherlock worried his bottom lip as he rang the doorbell, and put on a completely different demeanor as he quickly slipped a stiff piece of white paper through his collar. A video flicked on a small screen beside the door, revealing a woman with strawberry hair.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Um, yes, c-could you help me? I-I've been attacked, and..." Sherlock let a few tears slip out, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Sherlock was probably a better actor than half of those winning BAFTAs, but he always used this particular gift for all the wrong reasons (manipulation). The door opened, and the woman ushered us inside, a little too calm for my liking. She was almost reacting as if this was expected, while put me on alert immediately. She gave me an odd, questioning look, and I simply said, "I saw the whole thing happen, I'm a witness."

She smirked, and then said, "I'll phone the police. A first aid kit is the bathroom down the hall, and you're welcome to wait in the parlour until the police arrive."

Once she was out of sight, Sherlock handed me a lighter. "Find a way to set off the smoke alarms, but not immediately. It needs to happen in precisely eleven minutes,"

I nodded and slipped the lighter into my pocket, starting towards the large staircase. Smoke alarms, theoretically, should be more concentrated around bedrooms so the sound would be louder and arouse a sleeping person faster. Or at least, that's how I thought.

"Oh, Elizabeth?" I turned to see Sherlock staring at me, half of his body hanging out of the parlour. "Do bring the first aid kit. You've got a good arm."

I replied with a small grin, and then continued quickly up the stairs. Directly above the landing was a smoke alarm; so I found the alarm, but I still needed smoke. How on earth was I going to make smoke that was _delayed_? Sometimes I thought Sherlock put a little too much faith in me, and this was definitely one of those times. The first thing that came to mind was a magazine, because the paper was glossy and the cover pages were thicker, so it should, in theory, last longer than regular copy paper.

_Where was I going to find a magazine in a house I had never been in?_

As if on cue, I practically heard Sherlock's voice in my head sighing, "The _bathroom_, Elizabeth. Use your brain and _think_."

So I trotted down the stairs as quietly as I could, and dashed into the bathroom. The woman who was 'phoning the police' seemed to be taking an awful long time, including the police themselves. I tried not to focus on that too much as I searched the cupboard under the sink to find a clean, white first aid kit with the signature red cross on the front of it. And, just like the Sherlock in my head had suggested, there was a stack of magazines beside the toilet. I snatched one from the bottom (least used, won't be missed), and quietly snuck back up to the landing on the stairs, rolled up the magazine with my hair tie, and lit one end so it was smoldering, but still smoking, and then darted back downstairs and into the parlour, where Sherlock was sitting, staring up at a _very_ naked woman (the same one from the pictures) who had the white paper from his collar between her teeth.

Sherlock had his eyes locked with hers, not daring to wander anywhere else, and she was obviously enjoying the attention. I could understand her feeling, because there was something addictive about having the world's most observant man fascinated with you. He was so bored so easily, but Sherlock had this stare that could make you feel like the most interesting, important puzzle he had ever laid eyes on, and _that_... well, that was enough to make _any_ girl feel special; an army doctor, or a dominatrix.

Naturally, I cleared my throat awkwardly, and they both turned to me. Sherlock was blank (usual), but the woman was pleased. "Hi," I muttered, eyes flicking between the two of them.

"I was just telling Sherlock here how a disguise is always a self-portrait," she drawled, removing the paper from her mouth.

"And what have you gathered from his?" I shot back, feeling a bit defensive, but also a tad bit curious. It was devastatingly obvious that she was intelligent, but had learned to use her brain to manipulate others with her body.

"He's a sad, broken, delusional man who believes in a higher power. In this case, it's himself." she retorted, not missing a single beat. She wasn't wrong, either, and I felt my airways constrict. She was just as good as Sherlock; I could barely handle one, how was I supposed to deal with two, even if it was just for this case? And how was Sherlock's massive ego going to deal with having an equal? "What have you gathered from mine, Dr. Aplin?" she continued.

I felt my face flush. I was _definitely_ the idiot in the room, and while I knew this, it didn't mean that I enjoyed it at all, especially when she was openly trying to make me sound like it. So I was probably the most surprised person in the room when I heard myself say, "A woman who is so broken on the inside she overcompensates by exposing her exterior, which is flawless - good on you for that - so no one can get close enough to think otherwise. Now could you please put some clothes on?"

And then I _really_ felt Sherlock's furious stare on me, and I blushed further (I was doing that a lot today), and then sat on the far end of the couch, setting the first aid kit on the table.

She smiled at me suggestively. "I could cut my lips on that tongue of yours. Would you like me to try?"

My eyes glanced to Sherlock, expecting him to interject some sarcastic, cold remark, but instead he remained silence, and instead blushed himself. "The fight-sex between you two must be incredible. Do invite me over for a round." she added, and this time the both of us blushed so hard that I was beginning to feel pins and needles in my fingertips.

"Why does everyone assume that we're a couple?" I asked to no one in particular.

"You have some photographs, Ms. Adler, and the people in question would like them back." Sherlock said suddenly, switching gears completely. He had had enough of games, he was ready to close this 'petty' case and move on to something 'interesting' (a good serial killer would be good for him).

Ms. Adler crossed the room and folded herself into a chair, covering herself with Sherlock's Belstaff that he had draped across the arm of the sofa. "They have the photographs. Copies, at least."

"They need the originals as well. Although I figure you have something much bigger than photographs in your possession."

"You figure correctly, Mr. Holmes. Brainy is the new sexy." she winked. Absolutely nothing phased her, and that was the scary thing. I could tell that Sherlock was having a difficult time reading her, and if Sherlock was hitting a wall, then there was absolutely no way anyone else could figure her out.

"Tell me, are they in this room?" he inquired.

"Maybe."

And just shy of ten minutes (yes, it was a bit premature), the smoke alarms began to go off. Ms. Adler glanced at the mirror above the mantle, and I saw the pieces fall together in Sherlock's head, just like I had done a hundred times previously, and he smiled, pleased with himself.

"So they _are_ in this room. Thank you so much for your cooperation. Fire has a funny way of exposing our priorities, doesn't it?" he chirped, standing up and striding over to the mirror, removing it from the wall to reveal a safe. "Elizabeth, shut off the alarms."

I nodded and went out into the hallway, up the stairs, and right as I reached for the half-burned magazine, a bullet nearly took my fingers off. My instincts kicked in, and I retracted my hand so it could go to my hip, where my Browning was, but right as my fingers curled around it, a hand wound its way into the back of my hair and _yanked_, exposing my neck and chest to the man coming down from the second floor. My elbow jabbed into the chest of someone behind me, and they released my hair; I grabbed my gun again, turned around and slammed the butt of it into his wrist hard enough that I heard a definitive _crack_ followed by a loud shout of pain. Then I pushed him as hard as I could to sway his balance, and he fell down the flight of stairs like a rock.

Unfortunately, I heard another shot, and then the very, _very_ hot barrel of a gun pressing into the back of my neck. My reflexes acted against my will (I guess that's why they're reflexes) and I dropped my Browning, and collapsed in front of the flight of stairs I had just pushed the man down (he was getting back up, extremely angry) in pain. I could feel the ring of skin burning, and there was nothing I could do about it.

"Let's go." an American accent said, a hand winding in my hair and pulling my to my feet. The man picked up my discarded gun and slipped it in the empty holster on his hip. He pressed the barrel deeper into my skin, and I bit my lip hard enough that I tasted blood. _I will _not_ give you the satisfaction of hearing me make a sound of pain, I will _not_ make a sound, I will _not _make a sound._

I was half led and half dragged back to the parlour, where two other men were pointing guns at Sherlock and Ms. Adler. Sherlock eyed me, and it was clear that he had put together a mental picture of what had happened. His nostrils flared minutely. The man forced me to stand beside Ms. Adler (who was thankfully wearing Sherlock's coat now), and then said, "On your knees."

Of course, I didn't move a millimeter.

And of course, there was a horrible pain in the back of my skull a second later. I bit harder into my lip, feeling the renewed taste of blood again. My eyes were watery, and I felt my body threatening to sway from dizziness. _I will not make a sound, I will not make a sound__ - _a hand was tugging the sleeve of my jumper, and I looked down to see Ms. Adler kneeling, silently asking me to do the same.

"Just do as they say, Elizabeth." she whispered, voice unguarded. So I let my legs buckle as I all but fell to my knees in a way that made a drunk look like a ballerina. My head was screaming, my lip was bleeding, and the back of my neck was stinging and burning like hell, but I could not make a sound.

"The code to the safe, Mr. Holmes." another American man said.

"I don't know it." Sherlock replied.

"That's bullshit. As soon as Dr. Aplin left the room, we heard Ms. Adler say that she told you."

"I don't know it." Sherlock repeated.

The American huffed, and then nodded to one of his men. The barrel of a Browning (_my_ Browning, thank you very much) was pressed into her temple. Her expression didn't change, but I noticed her pupils constrict. She was trying to put on a brave front, and for the most part, she was. But the body has its own reactions, and her veins had to be swimming in adrenaline.

"Tell us the code, or he will shoot Ms. Adler."

"He doesn't know it!" Ms. Adler replied in unison with Sherlock's response. The American studied Sherlock's face for half a second and then waved at my general direction. Suddenly my head was forced forward, and a barrel was pressing deeply into the burn that had just been made. _I must not make a sound, I must not make a sound, I must not make a sound - _but oh my _god_, it hurt so _bad_.

"On the count of three, shoot Dr. Aplin." he said, and in that instant, I was back in the desert, twisted metal and blood filling my nose, and faint echoes of screams in my ears.

"_I don't know it_." Sherlock hissed.

"One,"

"_I DON'T KNOW THE CODE - _"

"Two,"

"Wait! Wait..." I could hear Sherlock taking deep breaths, but because of my position I couldn't see him, and for some reason that made everything a thousand times worse. I had flirted with death a few times, and none of them had been pleasant experiences, my current situation included. And then, I heard the faint, hesitant clicking of keys, followed by a loud, clunky unlocking sound.

What happened next was a complete and total blur.

* * *

**I just... *rubs eyes and pinches bridge of nose* I really hope I'm not letting you down.**


	13. Chapter 13

**I want to give everyone a hug for being so kind. I love you and all of the positive criticism and feedback. You're wonderful, and I sincerely wish I had more time to spend on here to read every single story you've ever written. But I can't, so you'll have to accept my sincerest thank you's instead. So here's a chapter in which our leading lady has a very bad day. One last thing: Vatican cameos, bitch.**

* * *

I thought I understood what people meant when they said that in extreme situations, time seemed to slow down, and everything started happening in slow motion. They say that's the brain's way of figuring out how to cope and process all of the information it's receiving. But in Afghanistan, I had never had time slow down (excluding bed rest), so I figured it would never happen.

Except as soon as Sherlock said, "Vatican cameos," it _did_.

Thankfully, the man jabbing the gun into my neck had forced my head down, because otherwise it would've been taken off by the gun that was triggered when Sherlock opened the safe. Everything was going snail-paced, probably due to the stress of the situation and the good head-thump I had just received, and suddenly I was in true soldier-mode (something that hadn't happened since the day my chest made friends with a bullet).

I immediately spun on my knees to incapacitate the (enemy) man behind me, only to find that he was already rather spectacularly dead (_good_). So I snatched up his gun from his (limp) hand, and slammed the butt of it into the nearest black-trousered kneecap that (unfortunately) made its way into my line of sight. The man with the injured knee fell beside me, and I gave him my full attention by smashing his nose with the butt of my borrowed gun as well.

Despite this, I could also hear distant echoes from far away sand dunes, yelling, "Why are you showing _sympathy_, Aplin? Shoot him." and I swallowed the bile that quickly flooded my mouth. No matter how much I wanted to, I didn't actually want to kill anyone, and I don't think most soldiers do. We want to _protect_, and if protecting means using deadly force, we do. But at the heart of it, we don't _want_ to. No one should have the power to decide who lives and who dies, but everyone does; what you do with that power defines who you are.

So, to keep a long story short, I _didn't_ kill anyone. I incapacitated them.

And then, everything grew quiet and time had sped up to its regular tempo, and I looked up to see Sherlock staring at Ms. Adler, who was holding a gun (my Browning) to a man's face. And for some reason, that made my chest swell in slight anger. Nothing had happened to Ms. Adler (save a gun being pressed into her temple), yet Sherlock was watching _her_ with more intensity than he ever had showed me, and _I_ was the one who had been shot at, burned, and taken a blunt-force head trauma for him. Then again, Sherlock knew I could take that, but a little appreciation or fake concern would have been nice.

Naturally, I chalked it up to the fact that he didn't want her to get any blood on his Belstaff, and pushed the swelling away.

"Tie them up, Elizabeth." Sherlock ordered, lowering the weapon he was holding. Ms. Adler kept a steady hand on her own, so I stumbled to my feet (relying too much on the table for support) and wobbled over to the unconscious man beside Sherlock, and dragged him to the sofa, and repeated this process until the only one left was the still-conscious man that Ms. Adler had a (my) gun pointed at. My veins were still too full of adrenaline to recognize the pain radiating from my head, but I could tell that something was off, because my body felt unnaturally heavy.

"I can take care of it." I didn't recognize my own voice, but I felt my lips move, and I stood a bit too closely to Ms. Adler, trying to get across that she could go. I was a soldier at the moment, it was my responsibility to protect. Not to kill, but to protect. And right now, Sherlock and Ms. Adler needed protection.

Ms. Adler stepped aside, eyes watching me carefully. "We'll phone the police." she said hastily; I heard two sets of footsteps fading away, but I never let my eyes leave the face kneeling before me. He was smirking even though he had a split lip.

"Well aren't you a sight to see," he chuckled, and I actually chuckled with him, picturing what I looked like at the moment. His eyes flickered to the gun. "Imagine what it would feel like to have that fired at you," he continued, growing acidic and spiteful. "Imagine a bullet tearing through your chest and stopping your heart."

The toxic lump in my chest spasmed, and before I could stop myself I had pulled the collar of my jumper down far enough to reveal the starburst mound of red, angry scar tissue on my sternum. He eyed it as I placed my face centimeters from his, breathing on his lips and locking into his gaze. We stayed that way for several moments; his expression hadn't changed, but something in his eyes had (too late). "I don't have to," I whispered, so close that I could feel our mutual split lips brushing; I ran the barrel down his cheek softly, never letting my eyes leave his, and then pressed it _deep_ into his shoulder. "But you do."

And I pulled the trigger, letting his shoulder explode onto my jumper, jeans, and all over the carpet. I shoved my fist in his mouth as he opened it to scream, quickly undid his belt from his trousers, and then tied it tightly just above the area I had shot him to make a tourniquet. He wasn't going to die, and I seriously doubt he would even lose the arm, but he _would_ have compromised motor control in his left hand, and would probably need a bit of surgery.

Not my problem.

I dragged him over to the couch with the rest of the men, and then used the medical tape from the first aid kit to bind their hands and feet together. I'm sure they could break the tape once they regained consciousness, but by that time the police would have arrived, so it would be pointless.

I left the parlour with the whispers of whimpers escaping the man I had shot, but they quickly faded into the background when I heard Ms. Adler yelling from upstairs, something about, "I said _drop it_!" shortly followed by a hard thud.

"Sherlock!" I yelled, running up the stairs two at a time, hand still tight around my Browning. I followed the sounds until I found Sherlock lying on his back, barely conscious and coherent. "Sherlock..." I breathed, crouching over him protectively. My peripherals caught movement, and I glanced up to see Ms. Adler, still wearing Sherlock's Belstaff, halfway out the window._  
_

"Don't worry, nothing deadly. Just something I use with my friends to relax them. Knock them out." she said, looking at him fondly as his head rolled from side to side. I felt the urge to push her out of the window, but my body remained frozen in place. _Can't leave him unattended, must protect._ A growl spilled from my lips, and Ms. Adler's twitched into a smile.

"You know, I was wrong about him. He _did_ know where to look for the password." she sighed, pulling the coat tighter around her body.

"Let me guess, somewhere on your body? Hiding it in plain sight?" I spat sarcastically, breaking her gaze and pressing my index and middle finger to Sherlock's neck to check his pulse. It had slowed, but nothing dangerous. Just a result of whatever tranquilizer she injected him with (the syringe was a meter away). I could practically feel Ms. Adler's smile grow wider.

"Good. Very good, Dr. Aplin. Do you want to know what it is?" I simply gave her a stern look, and she arched a brow suggestively. "My measurements." she winked, and then disappeared.

"Lizzy," Lestrade's voice was coming from down the hallway. "Why are there five men bound on the sofa with medical tape?" his voice grew louder as he walked into the room, words dying off when he saw Sherlock. I blinked a few times before replying, "Because I didn't have rope."

Drugged-Sherlock had a low chuckle at that, before ungracefully trying to roll onto his side. "Stop being clever," he slurred, taking heaving breaths as each move exhausted him. "It's endearing."

"I forgot, I'm only dull." I fired back, brushing off my hands as Lestrade and I tucked our arms under each of Sherlock's and hauled him upright and out of the room. Lestrade shot me an amused look, even though I was in the wrong state of mind to be joking about anything. A distant part of my mind knew that I'd be crying in the shower later because of everything (mostly the headache), but right now, I was still set in soldier mode.

"You're doing it again,"

"And _this_ is why everyone thinks you're a couple." Lestrade interjected as we took the stairs at an ungodly pace.

* * *

Sherlock was passed out in the back of Lestrade's police car by the time we pulled up to the clinic. "Just gonna have Sarah take a look at my head, make sure I don't have a concussion." I explained. "You can go on and take him back if you'd like... I can catch a cab back."

"I'll wait." Lestrade smiled understandingly, and I made a mental note to get him something nice for Christmas.

Sarah was just locking her office when I appeared in front of her, and judging by the state of her face, I was looking less professional since she saw me at five when I clocked out. "Oh my god Lizzy," she gasped. "What the hell happened?"

"Case," I smiled, but my lip split back open, and ruined the entire thing. "Anyway, I got hit on the head pretty hard. Can you check me for a concussion?"

She nodded sympathetically, and I bent down so she could feel my skull. It pounded from the sudden angle shift, and as soon as her fingers brushed the very prominent bump at the back, I winced and sucked in a sharp breath through my gritted teeth. "Look up," she instructed, and I did so, feeling the pressure throb. She shined a light in my eyes, and I squinted, head screaming from oversensitivity. Sarah gave me a very maternal glare, and I tried my best to make a funny face, but failed.

"Slight concussion, but nothing serious. Don't sleep for the next few hours, and I'll schedule you off for the rest of the week." she said, tucking her keyring flashlight in her coat pocket and steering me towards the door with her. "And no more cases for a while, yeah?" she added as we stepped out of the glass door. Lestrade's car was still there, as promised, and I gave Sarah a two-fingered salute before walking over to the car. I could see Sherlock in the backseat, saying something that I couldn't hear, and Lestrade was laughing as he caught it all on his mobile camera.

With a tap on the window, Lestrade shut off his mobile and turned around, and I slid into the passenger side. "Verdict?" he asked.

"Minor concussion, nothing serious."

"You should get those clothes in the wash as soon as I drop you off. Blood's nearly impossible to get out of fabric."

* * *

I stripped off my jumper and jeans after Lestrade helped me get Sherlock safely in his bed; once the wash was started, I headed to the bathroom to start a shower. But then I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror, and all but began screaming. There was blood splattered all over my face from when I had shot the (idiot) man in the shoulder, my lip was swollen from all the biting it had endured, and my hair was a complete and utter wreck. I turned on the tap and began frantically scrubbing my skin; his expression kept playing behind my eyelids, his muffled scream felt warm on my knuckles.

And it was all so _wrong_ because it made the lump in my chest feel so _right_, and I inevitably ended up scrubbing my skin until the water clear and my eyes and cheeks were pink, shaking slightly as I tried to hold my rattling bones together with the knowledge that I hadn't killed him.

_You did it out of spite; you pressed the gun into his shoulder, pulled the trigger, and smiled about it. It felt _marvelous_ to do that again, to feel such power, to feel invincible -_

"You are not a bad person." I said to myself, voice uneven and cracked. My muscles were beginning to stiffen from today's physical activities, and of course I was exhausted, but Sarah said I couldn't sleep for a few hours. _You are not a bad person because you let two people die, you are not a bad person because you injured a man out of spite. You are a _person_, you are human. There is redemption... there _has_ to be redemption, because if there isn't, then..._

My throat let out an inhuman sound, and then I was crying into a towel so that it wouldn't radiate throughout the flat. I was crying because my head was killing me; I was crying because the back of my neck was _crusty_ and I could _hear burned skin shift_ whenever I moved; I was crying because I shot a man out of spite and it felt okay; I was crying because maybe in the grand scheme of things I was so alone that not even Sherlock Holmes could save me, no matter how hard John's ghost was trying. Maybe we were all alone in the end.

But if we are all alone, then we're all together in that too, I guess. And maybe we weren't meant to save each other, but just make the load a little lighter. No one could save you from yourself, you had to do it.

I thought I understood what it meant to be a saviour, to 'free oppressed people in foreign nations,' but I didn't, not completely. I couldn't save me from myself, so how was I supposed to be trampling in with a gun saying, 'I can save you?'

A loud thump from Sherlock's bedroom perked my ears up, so I pulled on the sweats and t-shirt I had brought in with me (in hopes that I would change into them after a shower, which obviously wasn't going to happen for a while), and peeked in Sherlock's room to find him sprawled on the floor, looking dazed, and like he had a bad taste in his mouth.

"Where is she?" he slurred, struggling to get up to his feet but failing miserably.

My heart sank, because even as I was standing there in front of him, looking twice as miserable as he probably felt, I _still_ took a backseat to Irene Adler. I shifted my weight to one leg, and stared at the ceiling for a moment, feeling the familiar stinging sensation in the corner of my eyes start back up again. "Who?" I asked for good measure.

"The woman!"

"Sorry?"

"_The _woman, Elizabeth!"

Oh. So now she was 'the' woman. Not just a woman, not just another boring or dull person. But someone of importance, of hierarchy in his mind, even though he had met her _once_. And there I was, the companion who followed him wherever he requested, danger be damned, the person he had to consistently remind not to be 'dull.'

"She escaped. Lestrade's looking for her, probably your brother as well." I sighed, lip aching with movement.

Sherlock had managed to drunkenly scramble to his feet, but his balance was still completely shattered, and with one small push I had him safely back in his bed. "Go to sleep, Sherlock. Sleep it off."

"Nrrng..." he moaned as I pulled the duvet over him once again, and squirmed, trying to fight me.

"Fuck it. Do whatever the hell you want." I threw my hands off of the duvet and stormed out of his room, slamming the door behind me. I was pleased when he didn't emerge from his room five minutes later, so I put the kettle on, read a little of John's journal, and tried watching some telly. All that I saw was Top Gear, which wasn't that bad after a few minutes in. About halfway through, I had gathered enough common sense to put an icepack on the back of my head (how was I a doctor?), and attempted putting some ointment on the burn on the back of my neck, but no matter how much manipulating I tried, I couldn't. I couldn't see what I was doing, and my hair kept getting in the way because I couldn't pull it back without making the goose egg throb.

But around sunrise my luck changed, and I figured it was okay for me to drift off to sleep for a few hours before Sherlock emerged from his tomb and started off on this scandal of a case. So with Top Gear reruns still playing into the early hour of five-thirty, I nodded off on the sofa, much like the first night I had spent in 221B. And while I dreamt of gunfire, I felt it safe to assume that Sherlock was dreaming of Ms. Adler.

* * *

**So. Much. Work. Sorry guys, this week just wouldn't stop. I mean, I was productive (composed a song, took a few tests, wrote a paper...) but short of piano, those weren't things I enjoyed, so it wasn't... appealing. However, I will make up for this (pathetic) chapter by writing the next chapter from Sherlock's POV. Does that make everything okay?**


	14. The Woman, The Soldier, and The Shift

**Here's a few scenes from the eyes of our devastatingly brilliant leading man, who is less than brilliant in this chapter. *beats head against wall* AND IT WAS SO FREAKING DIFFICULT TO WRITE YOU HAVE NO IDEA UGH JUST THE CHARACTER IS COMPLEX AND THAT MAKES THE BALANCE ALL OFF AND I THINK I SKEWED IT A BIT TOO FAR IN ONE DIRECTION BUT A;LSKDFJA;SDFJPOWEHF.**

* * *

She's standing there, slowly putting my coat on the hook on the back of my door. I keep waiting for _it_ to happen, for the sudden mental shift, but none comes. _Why doesn't it come? _It didn't happen when we were in the parlour, or when she was standing there, pointing Elizabeth's Browning at the moron's face. It didn't even happen when she slashed at me with the riding crop and stuck the syringe in my arm.

Mental note: must reacquire her phone.

Sour taste in the back of mouth, slight headache. Dehydration, most likely. Need water so I can start analyzing evidence without further distractions; motor control is still affected, Elizabeth hears me fall, is coming to check on me. _She's always checking on me. Has she had her head looked at? Her neck? Panic attack is likely, nightmares tonight are certain. Brahm's Intermezzo in A seems to be the piece that works best, will find music to review -_

She's standing there, clothes changed, face clean but worn. And then _it_ comes, the sudden mental shift and burst of warmth that is never far behind, as if someone has finally brought me the horizon to tame, to redefine and paint to my pleasing. Elizabeth is like the horizon in fact that she's always there, never changing. Always, always, always.

Why can't the shift come when The Woman is around? That would make this experiment so much easier. The Soldier is not the exception; if the shift comes when The Soldier is around, it should also come when The Woman is around, and when Molly is around, and Mrs. Hudson (it does happen for Mrs. Hudson, but in a profoundly different way that I don't understand), and Sergeant Donovan, and...

She's looking at me expectantly, but tiredly. If I stare too long, she will know. Act vague, act bored, act disinterested. "Where is she?" I ask; tongue feels thick, dry, useless. Limbs and extremities seem to still be inhibited, frustrating. Watch as Elizabeth's face crumples slightly, and suddenly the warmth is gone, and she's holding it all in for herself. _No, no, no, no that's all wrong._

"Who?"

"The woman!"

"Sorry?"

"_The_ woman!"

Watch as her face turns up to the ceiling, eyes watering. I've disappointed her? No. When I disappoint her she gets quiet and glares at me. Hurt then. Yes, I've hurt her. Elizabeth is saying something, but I don't hear it as I stumble to my feet, try to walk towards the door for a glass of water, but she pushes me, and my bed welcomes me. Pulls the duvet up to my chin, squirm because it's not fair. The shift doesn't make sense, why is it favoring her? What does the shift want? I don't like it. I don't understand it. I don't like it because I don't understand it.

"Fuck it. Do whatever the hell you want." she storms out of my room, and I patiently wait for the sounds of her leaving the flat, going out for air like she did a few times when we quarreled about body parts in the fridge. But the front door does not slam - the kettle screams, and there's pages of a book turning, and after a while the telly's on, droning some stupid show about cars. Sleep drifts in and out, but every time I wake, soft sounds from the living room are still there. At five-thirty, I change into my pajamas (they're warm and soft) and go out to find Elizabeth asleep on the couch, ice pack against the back of her head, book clutched possessively, and a cold cup of tea on the coffee table.

Before the shift can happen, there's a knock on the door. Height, pressure, rhythm: Mycroft. The sour taste is renewed. He doesn't wait for an answer (he never does), and lets himself in. He takes one look around and sees everything. I hate him because he's better than me. Because he's always been better and just glides through life. And because Christmas dinners are a painful reminder of all of it.

"Greg called me," he begins quietly. "Said there were some unexpected... complications with the Adler case."

"That's because Greg is a moron. Who is Greg anyway?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." he sits in my chair.

"I was still correct. The Adler case isn't his division, so why is he calling you?" I snap, reluctantly taking Joh-Elizabeth's chair. Mycroft gives me an infuriating, knowing smile, and then nods in her direction. Make myself act bored, annoyed. Roll eyes. Mycroft scowls.

"Apparently, someone on the force said that Dr. Aplin's prints were all over the room, including the medical tape that bound them. Naturally, it wasn't hard to put a picture together of what happened."

"Then you know I was doing what you asked of me." I spat back, playing out where he was going with this.

"You were letting Irene Adler flirt with you while Dr. Aplin sat back and took a beating. She's in worse shape than the two of you, because while you and Ms. Adler were too busy trying to outdo each other, Elizabeth was protecting you." Mycroft's face hasn't changed, but his voice is round with warning.

Ridiculous. John had bad nights on cases, but no one ever interfered. Elizabeth wasn't the outlier, there must be something I'm missing. The shift favors her, and now the Yard and Mycroft. There's something I'm not seeing, not putting together.

"John was cut up badly after the case with the Black Lotus, and you didn't lift a finger."

"New Scotland Yard didn't know about John's... incidents. But once people start noticing, they start talking, Sherlock."

"People do little else." Break his gaze and look at my violin, my music. _Brahms probably under __Tchaikovsky - _

"I am too busy to clean up your careless mistakes. Don't let this happen again. Finish the Adler case." he stands, buttons his coat, and swings his umbrella (that stupid, stupid, _stupid_ umbrella). Fight the urge to steal it, snap it, burn it. "Oh, and Mummy requests that you come for Christmas in a few weeks."

"I'm not going." Hate Christmas. Mummy makes me wear a tie, swoons over Mycroft, tells me what I'm doing wrong. I'm 'wasting my potential' and 'should've gotten a job like Mycroft.' "You know where the door is, I suggest you use it."

He opens his mouth, but sudden fitful thrashes and noises from the couch capture his attention. He's unaccustomed to her nightmares, so why is he telling me how I should behave with her? I am the one who lives with her, I am the one who gets sewn up by her, who she forces to eat, who spends the most time with her, so how dare he stick his nose in and suggest _I_ am bad for her? I say danger, and there she is, unfailing, like a supernova on the horizon. _Always, always, always._

"Out." I hiss, standing and moving towards the music stand. No time to glance at the music, must rely on muscle memory. Of course it will be infallible. Played the song too many times. I point my bow at him, and jab it. "Now."

Mycroft opens the front door and gives me a stern look. "You are not to investigate further on the Adler case until after the holidays." he sighs, shuts door, leaves. Listen for the door at the bottom of the steps to open and close, frantically grab my violin and begin. After a few lines, the thrashing ceases, but the whimpers don't. By the second page, I realize I cannot save her from herself this time; I cannot reach her, wherever her mind has taken her. Lower my instrument, scratch back of my head with the bow.

Fifteen seconds later (I counted), she sits up, still dead to the world, and _screams_. I have heard many screams (experiment comparing pitch to emotion), and this one made me jump due to the suddenness and the fear. Elizabeth was screaming like she was dying, like she was burning from the inside out; she was screaming as if no one could hear her, and I nearly wondered if this is what she and everyone else felt like most of the time, because that's how I felt most of the time.

And then I'm in front of her, shaking her gently, which turns out to be the wrong thing to do. Her fist makes contact with my cheek again, and I feel a small trickle of warmth. And then she's awake, wide-eyed and concerned, mumbling apologies as she tries to make sense of everything. I sit on the coffee table and she scrubs her face with her hands, taking a few deep breaths before disappearing into the bathroom and reappearing with a first aid kit. There are dark circles under her eyes, suggesting virtually no sleep, and my gut twists. Here she is, fixing me up. _Always, always, always._

Her fingers are quick and gentle, methodic and knowing as she wipes the cut with an alcohol swab, blots it with gauze, and then neatly places a butterfly bandage across it.

"I need a shower and some coffee, but then I'll be ready to go." she says softly, packing up the kit. She's exhausted, she's upset, yet here she is, asking how high before I can even say jump, and the shift is upon me once more.

It's unbelievably frustrating to exist sometimes, but her loyalty makes it better. I think part of it is that she's just so damn _bright_. Every time I look at her, it's like I'm peering into the center of a supernova that's just hopelessly spinning on the horizon, around a star in the void of space. I swear, her chest is filled with candlelight; mine mostly consists of broken light bulbs that glowed a long time ago. I am cold, she is warm. I am dim, she is bright. She usually is warm and comfortable and bright, but she's distant right now. She's keeping in her light and warmth, making everything dim and cold. She's making everything... me. Eventually she will decide to move on from a black hole (me), to another supernova on a horizon.

She knew this, though. I told her I would be a black hole and take and take and take every ounce of light from her that she would offer, and then push for more; I would push and push and push her to her limits and then take everything back, making it useless. I do not love, I consume. I ask for _everything_. And that's why the shift is making no sense. It should be applying to everyone.

When I first touched a violin, the shift happened and I knew I would consume every gram of knowledge, every note of music, every sound. And I have. When I first discovered chemistry at the age of six, the shift happened and I knew I would consume it. And I have (still am). But I have never consumed another person, because the shift has not happened. But now it is, and it's only applying to one person, and I _don't understand it at all_.

This would all make much more sense if the shift would happen when I saw The Woman. She was in the business of making people shift anyway; she stood before me, stark naked, and there was no shift even though there should have been. I kept staring at her, waiting for it to happen, but it never came. _Why does it come for The Soldier?_

So I stop her from making coffee, and direct her to the stairs leading up to her room, and I play Brahms until I know she's asleep, and decide that I can think about _it_ tomorrow.

* * *

**HERE IS THE 2K+ WORDS OF WHAT FOR YOU. I HOPE YOU ENJOYED. *commences starting next chapter between study sessions***


	15. Chapter 15

**Dear god, someone help me. I can't stop writing domestic and Christmas fluff, and it isn't even Christmas (in reality) yet. I blame harliesue because her wonderful story is set around Christmas. Thank god it is in this story. Not completely satisfied with the way this turned out, but then again it's just a draft.** **Oh, songs for you to vote on are at the bottom.**

* * *

_Oh god, just twenty minutes, Sherlock, please, I just need twenty minutes of sleep..._ I couldn't believe that I was trudging to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee after I bandaged up his face, after I had just fallen asleep (and into something more terrifying that I couldn't recall), and after I had just been so thoroughly angry with him. But at the same time, I could believe it. Because I was always following him into danger, into a crime scene, or into wherever he decided he needed to be. But dear god above, I just know I can't do it this time; I'll fall asleep on him in the back of the cab, I'll fall asleep against Lestrade or Molly or whoever.

But then he's there, taking the coffee out of my hands with such gentleness that I (and the rest of the world) often forgot he was capable of, and he's guiding me to the stairs, humming something so soothing I could fall asleep standing up, but I force myself up the stairs and into my bed, which is _heavenly_. And then I faintly hear Brahms and my chest aches deeply, because he always plays Brahms for me, even though I never said anything about it being a favorite.

And then, the sunlight is peeking through my window, bright and much too cheery. The clock reads two-fifteen, and I decide that even though my muscles are stiff, my need for a shower outweighs the need for laziness, so I grab a towel and headed downstairs.

I was expecting several things to greet me when I came downstairs (the kitchen a wreck, Sherlock holding body parts, Sherlock hypnotized by his microscope, Sherlock studying china [he was still on that for some reason], etc.), but Mycroft was not one of them. There he was, eloquent as always, sitting in my chair across from a sulking Sherlock who was clutching his violin angrily. He often held onto his violin when he was in his extremes - it was like a child's security blanket.

"Afternoon, Dr. Aplin," Mycroft smiled, though it was (as always) a bit smug. Sherlock merely plucked a chord in disapproval of his brother's voice.

"I... uh, afternoon, Mycroft." I returned, feeling quite underdressed between the two brothers adorned in perfectly-tailored suits. "How long have you...?"

"A while - "

"Too long."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed on Sherlock, who seemed to pout even more, and then said, "And I'm staying until you decide to come home for Christmas." Sherlock plucked on the strings once again, but harder.

"We discussed this earlier this morning. I'm not going home. It's always a disaster." he cut back.

"You know how much it will disappoint Mummy."

I blinked at the pair of them, and then said, "Sherlock, you're going to visit your family for Christmas. That's the end of it." and started towards the bathroom once more.

"I am not!" he shouted.

"Yes, you are." I countered, turning around to give him a stern look. I changed my angle so I could see Mycroft, and then said, "I'll make sure he gets there. My family does everything on Christmas Eve anyway."

"I'll mark down that you'll be attending as well, then?" Mycroft smiled curiously, and I froze. It would be weird if I went to Sherlock's for Christmas, wouldn't it? That wasn't something flatmates did, was it? I mean, yes, we were friends, but going over to someone's for Christmas was something that couples did, and we most certainly weren't interested in each other like that. Mycroft rose, buttoned his coat, and twirled his umbrella. "It's a formal event, so do wear something nice."

"I, er, no. No, I don't think you should mark me down for anything." I said once I could form words. "While I appreciate the invitation, I don't think the rest of your family would - "

"Oh nonsense. Anthea comes every year." he dismissed.

"You're also sleeping with her." Sherlock bit acidly.

"Stay out of my private life, Brother."

"Then stay out of mine!"

Mycroft flashed us both an uncharacteristic, cheeky grin before darting out the door. "See you at Christmas!" he called as he gracefully found his way to the building door.

* * *

I had never taken a more angst-ridden shower in my entire life. On one hand, I was internally squirming about the fact that I was potentially going to be spending Christmas with the Holmeses, and on the other, I was internally rolling my eyes, because maybe Mycroft did have a sense of humour after all, and this was just a joke. Not to mention the fact that I was still upset with Sherlock from yesterday.

Maybe I could fake the flu or something to get out of it (like that would fool anyone).

Christ, I felt like a teenager all over again, and those were a good set of years I would rather not relive. If an awkward six years where you were riddled with hormones, angst, and acne are the best of your life, then you _really_ haven't lived at all, and that's a tragedy in itself. But thankfully, I had done a few things between Uni and now, yet that didn't mean I was eager to dive back into the same insecure mindset I had before the military.

I stepped out, wrapped the towel around me, and left the bathroom to find Sherlock had torn the entire living room apart, and was halfway up the chimney. "Cigarettes. I need cigarettes." he growled, as if he sensed I was watching him. I had known that Mycroft's little stunt was going to aggravate him, but I hadn't known it would be to this extent. But still, I remembered John's journal and Sherlock's multiple reminders not to cave when it came to the subject of smoking, and unconsciously squared my shoulders.

"No. You've been doing so well."

He crawled out of the chimney, a few smudges of black soot on his face, and _glared_. "But I _need_ them," his voice was soft, steady, and a hint of murderous, but I shook my head (my wet hair clung to my back, making it feel weird against the burn on my neck). "No. And don't even try that whole doe-eyed act, or the suddenly appreciative one where you tell me how wonderful I am, or suddenly observe something 'new' about me."

"You've been watching the way I manipulate." he said, sounding surprised.

"Of course I have. What else am I supposed to do while you stand there and be a genius?"

"You could try looking at the scenery."

I laughed. "Because crime scenes always have the best scenery. You know the blood splatters tend to tie the whole room together?"

Sherlock actually smirked at me before adding, "They are certainly better things to look at than me."

And my chest gave a familiar ache once again, because there wasn't anything more amazing to look at than Sherlock putting it all together, and opening his mouth to explain it. Surely he knew that. He, of all people put on this earth, would know that; I wasn't the only one who was mesmerized by him at a scene, I saw Lestrade watching him like a hawk, and even Donovan and Anderson were caught oogling a few times. He had a way of walking into a room and taking all of the space out of it, and doing the exact same thing inside your head.

"We can argue about this when I'm dressed," I said after a beat or two.

"What does being dressed have to do with it?"

"Sherlock, look, I know you're practically asexual, but I don't feel comfortable arguing with you when I'm in a towel."

He glanced at the length of me a few times before furrowing his brows in the middle and asking, "So if I put on a towel would that help the situation?"

And I bit back another laugh, because while he was arguably the smartest man on earth, he was also incredibly naïve in areas that were often common knowledge to the general population, such as why a man and a woman shouldn't argue naked. Granted, we would hypothetically both be wearing towels, so nothing would be shown, and he insisted he didn't do relationships of any sort, and I had said that was fine, that it was all fine, and nothing would happen. And nothing had happened in the months we had lived together, and nothing would happen now. So I simply gave him an understanding smile and said, "No. I think I'll just go get dressed, okay? And you're still not getting any cigarettes, so put on a nicotine patch. Two at most, or I will throw them out again."

Once I was in my standard jeans and jumper uniform, had a cuppa, and had put up with Sherlock yelling at the telly for fifteen minutes, I reached over and turned it off. "Come on, we're going out." I announced, standing up and hearing my knees pop.

"Why? Mycroft banned me from the Adler case until after holidays, Lestrade refuses to give me anything. There's nowhere to go."

"You need to start shopping for your family. And Greg. And Molly. And Mrs. Hudson." I retorted, checking off the list in my head and looking at him a bit surprised. "You know. Christmas."

"Dull. Everyone deduces everything within the first five seconds." he moaned.

"Well you get to do it anyway."

* * *

Turns out, getting a sulking Sherlock that's craving cigarettes out of the flat is much harder than I originally anticipated, which really is my fault, because I should know by now. However, it's also partly his fault for being such a bad sport about everything. Christmas was always one of my favorite seasons, and lately I hadn't been able to properly enjoy it.

But I had done the impossible, and Sherlock was moping from shop to shop, while secretly being pleased that he was spectacular at my _Guess The Price Of This Shitty Object_ game I had made up for him. Finally, I held up a wax seal set, and when he didn't immediately roll his eyes (or groan, or wander away), I took it as a good sign. "How about this for Mycroft?"

"I don't think he would use that." he said slowly, but his eyes hadn't left it, and I could tell he was either overwhelmed, stressed out, or both.

"Sherlock, it's okay," I tried to reassure quietly. "Literally ninety-five percent of gift-giving is just about the thought behind it. Even for your brother."

I don't care what Sherlock says or what Mycroft thinks, but the Holmes brothers truly cared about each other on a deeper level than either would bother to admit. I thought I understood what it was like to feel alone, but Sherlock and Mycroft were so extraordinary that there was no way they didn't feel alienated their entire lives; the only person who truly stood a chance at completely understanding Sherlock was Mycroft, and vice versa. I could only go so far until I hit Sherlock's personal wall.

"Plus it would go great with his power-complex. Historically speaking - "

"I follow your train of thought, Elizabeth," he sounded irritated, but his eyes were affectionate, so I handed it to him.

"Now onto Molly..."

* * *

We ended up getting Molly the third book in the _Game of Thrones_ series (Sherlock remembered her talking about the second book's ending), Lestrade a tie and a nice thermos (Sherlock remembered him saying he had left his thermos in a bakery by accident), Mrs. Hudson a new set of non-stick bakeware (Sherlock remembered her saying how biscuits were difficult to make with her current set), and Mycroft the wax seal set ("Mummy and Father's shopping can wait.").

I was beaming as I watched him purchase these items (although I chipped in half for Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson's gifts), because it was one of the most human things I had ever seen him do. Not to mention the fact that he decided on everything _because he had listened to what people in his life talked about_. That in itself was more than a thermos, a book, or a bakeware set.

As we left the and started down the packed alley between the shops (I was carrying most of the bags), Sherlock stammered, "Er, so... is there anything you'd like for... holidays or...?"

A smile tugged on my lips again, and I found it ironic how I could go from being furious with him (like yesterday) to being charmed by his innocence and hesitancy (like now).

"You don't have to get me anything, Sherlock." I replied.

* * *

**Don't worry, after another chapter of fluff we'll get back to hardcore angst, because who doesn't love angst? Note: Brahms "Intermezzo in A" is a piano piece, but I adore it, so pretend it's for violin.**

**Songs to vote on (one will become the official song of this story!):**

**"Oblivion" by Bastille**

**"Who You Love" by John Mayer and Katy Perry**

**"Samson" by Regina Spektor**

**Either leave a review with your vote or PM me, whichever is fine.**


	16. Chapter 16

**First dates and Christmas.**

* * *

Between dealing with Sherlock's growing sense of boredom and the flu season keeping the clinic in full swing, I was struggling to find time to get shopping done for my family and a few people at work. However, it wasn't terribly bad, because Sarah hired a new doctor, Daniel. He was basically the personification of a lead male from a romance novel between the dark, luscious hair and the stunning blue eyes (although Sherlock's were nicer), and the nice body, so I wasn't completely upset when I was called in for an unexpected shift because Sarah was running a fever.

"Sorry I'm late," I apologized, unwinding my scarf from my neck, only to find that in my rush I had grabbed Sherlock's instead of mine. "Had to take the tube, and..." I snatched a stack of patient files from Daniel's overflowing desk, trying not to look like a total idiot. "Well, you know. Wasn't exactly planning on coming in."

"You weren't in the middle of a date or something, were you?" he asked, bobbing his head to finally catch my gaze. My cheeks flushed. "I was just wondering because your scarf is different and - "

"No, no." I breathed after a second or two. "I, uh, no. I wasn't on a date." Daniel gave me a small smile and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, and _damn_ if that wasn't one of the most attractive things a man could do. "And I don't have one tonight." I finished, my face burning more than before.

"So, um. Yeah," he chuckled. "Any chance you'd like to grab coffee if we ever get out of here tonight?"

"Love to." I smiled, still blushing harder than I had in ages. "Now, off to touch sick people."

* * *

I was beginning to think the shift was _never_ going to end, but at seven Daniel rapped on the doorframe, his coat already on. "Still up for that coffee?" he asked, never breaking eye contact as he pulled on his gloves. I all but knocked over my chair as I stood up, snatching my coat and (Sherlock's) scarf off of the coat hanger.

We walked up the street to the coffee shop on the corner, ordered, and had just settled into a booth (and properly flirting) when a familiar body slid in next to me. "Sherlock!"

"Elizabeth." he retorted coolly, eyes wandering before finally settling on Daniel. _Please Sherlock, not tonight._

"Um...?"

"Daniel, this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes." I mumbled, trying not to sound as miserable as I knew this was going to turn out. I also knew how the state of the flat would be by the end of the night when we got home, judging by the amount of yelling I was wanting to do. "Sherlock, this is one of my colleagues."

"Oh, I hardly imagine you intend to keep things that way," Sherlock shot back, still sounding cool and collected and infuriatingly superior.

"With your intellect you could be a _genius_." I hissed, slamming my mug down and twisting minutely in the small booth to face him directly.

"And with yours, you could be on a date with a married man." Sherlock's eyes instantly went from mine to Daniel, who was watching us, wide-eyed and stiff. "Or, as he would put it, 'separated,' but honestly if they were the tan line on his ring finger would have disappeared by now, his shirts wouldn't be as pressed and creased, and he would be wearing a toxic amount of cologne."

A lump formed in the back of my throat, because while I knew he was probably correct, it still hurt. Partially because he was ruining the first date I had been on in years, and partially because it was just all sorts of unfair. And a lot of it also boiled down to the fact that I was embarrassed and angry that I was on a date with a married man and had nearly become the other woman. _And also because Sherlock couldn't just let me be for one fucking night_.

My eyes tipped down to the coffee mug, and I carelessly dragged my index finger across the rim. "Are you married?" I asked once everything was nice, awkward, and quiet. "And don't try to lie about it, because R2D2 over here will know."

Daniel was quiet for several moments, and I was half expecting him to just get up and leave, but he stayed, and I had to admire that. "Yeah, I'm married. To be fair though, you're also in a relationship and you agreed to this."

"I am not." I countered, eyes darting up to glare at him. Daniel simply gaped at me before waving his hand between Sherlock and me. "And what do you call that thing?"

"Friendship."

Daniel laughed, and I rolled my eyes. "If anyone cares, we're not actually a couple."

"Yes you are." he shot back without hesitation. "Look, can we just forget this happened? Call it a night?"

"Gladly." Sherlock interjected before I could even begin to think about formulating a response. "Happy Christmas, Daniel. Do get the wife something nice." he added with a two-fingered salute before practically dragging me out of the booth and towards the door. And I followed, because there was no reason to stay and have coffee, and there was no reason to try and ponder it over alone when I know Sherlock wouldn't ever let me live it down. I had flirted and gone out for coffee with a married man, he had somehow figured out where I was and saw what I failed to, and that was that.

"Where are we headed?" I called as Sherlock stepped to the curb to hail a cab. I couldn't figure out how he did it; they seemed to magically appear from thin air whenever he raised one of those violin hands, completely free and ready to drive us around to whatever god awful crime scene or dirty alley or -

"Jeweler's."

"Case?"

"No. Picking up Mummy something. She's always appreciated rubies."

"Oh." I kept it short as I slid into the backseat of the cab.

* * *

My suspicions about the flat were completely wrong. In fact, it was clean for once, and by clean, I mean spotless. The kitchen table was finally cleared off; no microscopes or petri dishes or body parts. The rug had been hoovered, the coffee table had been wiped with furniture cloths, and Sherlock had managed not to take down the Christmas lights I had strung along the mantle.

I cautiously unwound Sherlock's scarf from my neck once more, and hung it up beside his Belstaff as I hung up my outdated coat, and eyed my book of Robert Frost lying open on the arm of my chair. Sometimes I had a soft spot for poetry; it was an easy way to lull my mind into drowsiness after a particularly grueling day when I didn't want to use melatonin. However, the only book of poetry in all of 221B was an old, weathered copy of Frost, so that's what I read. My favorite, though, was "Birches." There was something so odd in the beginning, almost boring from all the heavy imagery that found itself sounding more like a rant than a poem. But about three-quarters of the way through, something changes, as if Frost had _finally_ figured out what he was trying to say:

_"I'd like to get away from the earth for a while_ _and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me, and half grant me what wish and snatch me away not to return. Earth's the right place for love; I don't know where it's bound to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree... toward heaven until the tree could bear no more, but dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches."_

And for some bizarre reason, "Birches" has always stuck with me since the first evening I read it. Whenever Sherlock was being a proper prick, I would mutter, "One could do worse than be a swinger of birches." until I believed it, and then I would carry on. Because as Lestrade had told me, most of the time I just had to believe that Sherlock was a better man than he appeared, and that had to be what got me through the day.

Tonight's events proved that it was going to be, quietly, one of those times.

While Sherlock was haphazardly wrapping the small box from the jeweler, I toed off my shoes and sat in my chair, throwing my legs over the arm so my back could rest against the other, and absentmindedly read a few pages, but no comfort came. Daniel was still floating in my mind, and my frustration with myself hadn't died down any. But there were certain things that could not be undone no matter how hard I wished; eventually, I would have to put it out of mind, and be at ease with the fact nothing actually happened.

After twenty minutes or so I snapped the book shut and stared at the ceiling, playing over what I needed to pick up for my parents and whether or not we had enough wrapping paper; what to get Sherlock and Mycroft (I did owe Mycroft for the job) without them completely guessing it within two seconds; whether or not I was really going over to Sherlock's on Christmas.

No wonder my parents were always so irritable around holidays. There was so much stuff.

"Sherlock," I sighed after a giving up with mentally planning Christmas. "How did you know where I was after work?"

"I deduced it. It takes precisely twenty minutes by cab, thirty by tube. But if you stop for coffee at the shop up the road, it takes roughly ten minutes longer." he explained, holding up the neatly wrapped box and inspecting every inch of it with scrutinizing criticism I couldn't hear.

"Ah. And why did you come to find me if you were just going to the jeweler?"

"You had my scarf, and it was cold. Logical." he replied with his 'you're asking dull questions again' tone.

"Yes, so why didn't you ask for it when we left the coffee shop?" I asked. To be honest, I didn't really care to know the answer, I just wanted mundane conversation so my brain would start winding down and I could catch a few hours of sleep before I had to face Daniel tomorrow morning. Sherlock didn't respond, so I took it as my cue to stop talking, and went upstairs to bed.

* * *

Daniel and I didn't acknowledge each other the next day, which was impressive considering the amount of times we kept bumping into each other in the break room. But we managed, and at six I clocked out and began my holiday. Christmas was only four days away, and I hadn't gotten anyone a thing. I had ideas, but seeing what I could actually get my hands on this late would be a completely different story.

I puttered around shops and found a nice jumper for my mother, a specific type of tea from India my dad liked, and decided Mycroft could throw away the quill I picked up (went well with the wax seal). However, I knew what I wanted to _try_ to get Sherlock, but I didn't know if it was actually possible, so in the cab back (I had to wait a substantially longer time than Sherlock ever had) I phoned Lestrade.

"Lizzy, please don't tell me Sherlock has gotten himself into some legal matters that I have to try to undo. It's nearly Christmas." was the first thing I heard after he picked up. I stiffened a laugh and said, "No, no. Nothing like that. But I do have a favor to ask."

"Oh?"

"Do you have any cold case files I could give Sherlock for holidays?"

"Yeah, but they're ridiculously difficult to get a hold of..." Lestrade's voice trailed off, and I could tell from his tone what he was implying.

"Look, I can keep him on a muzzle for three future cases at most." I bargained.

"Actually... gah, this is awkward, but could you give my kids a flu shot?" he asked.

"Seriously? That's all you want?" I retorted in slight disbelief. "Yeah, yeah. I can do that."

"Thanks Lizzy. I'll mail you copies of the files. Happy holidays."

"You too."

Next, to call Molly.

"Sherlock?" she answered hopefully.

"Sorry Molly, it's just me." I replied.

"Oh, hi Lizzy," she couldn't hide her disappointment, but I didn't take it personally.

"I'm going to cut to the chase and ask if there's anyway you can set aside a cadaver or two after you've done the paperwork? I know Sherlock's been wanting to do this experiment with a thyroid..."

"Well, in theory yes, but that requires a lot of extra work, and I'm already on lab cleaning because someone's out ill." she sighed.

"I can clean lab equipment for you. Fair trade?"

"Really?" she asked. "Yeah. I'll set aside two."

"Thank you a ton. Call me back on this number when you need me to start scrubbing test tubes. Happy holidays, Molly."

The cab pulled up to 221B right as I slipped my phone back into my pocket. I paid the cabbie and darted up the seventeen stairs to the flat; I could hear Sherlock's violin singing out melodies from behind the door, and when I walked in they grew louder and sounded richer, more vibrant. I stood in the doorway and listened for a while, watching his back. Anyone who ever doubted that Sherlock had passion had never heard him play - it was all there, every emotion he always pushed away and buried deep. I don't think he could help it that everything he had ever felt came through in his music; if it didn't, it would just be organized sound. But music had breathed very real life into his cruel figure, had given him some anchor to the rest of the world.

Sometimes he looked like he was about to burn alive when he played, like there was some deep _thing_ that needed out of his body. It was almost as if even Sherlock Holmes had a toxic lump in his chest that he hid behind layers of immaculate suits and knifelike words. And as soon as I saw him playing, I was always immensely curious about him; I wanted to take his instrument away carefully, gently, and hold his hands and listen to him tell me about _everything_. About his childhood, about his first case, about his first hit of heroin (John's journal had an explicit few pages about Sherlock's drug history), about Mycroft as a kid, about Mrs. Hudson and her husband's case in Florida, about beekeeping...

But I never dared to do these things, because he would never tell me, even if I offered all of the cigarettes in the world. So I quietly shut the door and sat on the sofa so I could begin wrapping.

* * *

Sherlock delivered his gifts to Lestrade and Molly the next morning, and I took the opportunity to make sure the cold case files were separated from the rest of the mail by the time he got back. We went downstairs and gave Mrs. Hudson her present, which she fawned over between hugging Sherlock and peppering kisses on his cheeks. She gave me a knowing look, as if she understood I had been the one that coerced him in the first place, and then kissed me as well.

On Christmas Eve I went over to my parents', but I kept thinking about tomorrow. Mycroft had sent a few texts with the details about tomorrow, along with a reminder to 'wear something nice,' which put a damper on things, because I hadn't owned any formal attire since I enlisted. The most formal thing I owned was my uniform, but I highly doubt that was what Mycroft meant. So after dinner and gifts, I awkwardly asked my mother if she had anything I could borrow. Of course, she had millions of questions, such as, "Since when have you two been a thing? We could have invited him over tonight."

To which I kindly replied with, "He was busy tonight." because no matter how many times I denied that Sherlock and I were in a relationship, the world chose to ignore it.

After a stern look (or seven) from her, she rummaged through her closet to find a simple burgundy dress; it was floor-length with ruching around the waist and a neckline that went straight across, connecting to the three-quarter sleeves that hung off the shoulder. It wasn't tight-fitting, but it was definitely more form-fitting than the jumpers I wore, and I immediately felt... unnatural, uncomfortable. But, it was what it was, so I thanked her much more than necessary, and retired back to 221B.

Getting Sherlock out of the flat the next morning was a heroic feat that required the strength of me, Mrs. Hudson, and the driver of the car Mycroft had sent. And getting Sherlock out of the car when we arrived to a manor after a three-hour drive was another feat that quickly dissolved once a tall, slender, raven-haired woman gracefully stepped outside the front door. Sherlock immediately got out of the car, and actually helped me out (for once), and then twiddled with his phone.

"Sherlock," she called, her voice rich like honey flaked with rust. "Mon cher." she smiled as we walked up the steps.

* * *

If there's one thing anyone should know about the Holmes manor, it's this: it is big. Like, vastly, hugely, gigantically big. A butler came out to the car and relieved us of our change of clothes, directed us to our rooms (which were across the hall from each other), and then politely said that we were requested in the music room.

Sherlock led me through the massive house, and I tried not to completely gawk at the embellishments along the way. The house was meant to impress, was meant to show that the family that lived in it was very old, very wealthy, and very powerful, which it did so splendidly.

"You grew up _here_?" I asked in a whisper, craning my neck around to see the tapestry that hung on the wall. I felt like I had stepped inside a novel; Sherlock seemed even more uncomfortable than usual, and his lips were in a tight, thin line. It looked like he was moments away from shattering, falling into pieces on the marble floor for the wait staff to sweep up.

"Yes." he nodded curtly, fingers curling and uncurling in such a way that it probably hurt his joints, but he kept doing it anyway. Why was he so wound up? His mother had greeted us kindly enough (granted, she sort of glanced at me, ignored me, and embraced her son). I know he had said to Mycroft that 'it was always a disaster,' but so far everything was just fine. "I... there are things that you will hear... it's been taken care of - "

"Mon cher," the honey-rust voice called from the room at the end of the hall. "Is that you?"

"Oui, avec Elizabeth." he replied mid-sentence. My eyebrows shot up, and he gave me a pained expression. "Mummy made us spend every summer with her family in France. Please don't gawk."

There was something so... so _sad_ in his voice that I couldn't help but nod and wipe the expression off my face. I didn't understand why Sherlock was so tense right now, like he was expecting something horrible to happen at any moment. Maybe it was because it was his first Christmas without John? No, he would've said something. My stomach began gnawing at itself - I shouldn't have made Sherlock come home, the look on his face made that devastatingly apparent as he took a deep, ragged breath and entered the music room.

A chestnut, grand piano was by the large, French windows and across from the fireplace. Nearby, a few music stands were set up, shelving loose music neatly, and instrument cases were resting beside them. Mycroft, Anthea (without her phone, for once), and Mummy Holmes were seated on the oversized, velvet sofa; all six eyes were trained on us as we walked in and awkwardly took a seat across from them on the matching sofa.

"How _are_ you, Sherlock?" Mummy Holmes drawled, something twinkling in her silver eyes. Yes, Sherlock had his mother's eyes, and I could only assume Mycroft had their father's. Sherlock stiffened, his back not daring to touch the back of the sofa, and I shot Mycroft a quizzical look before placing a hand near Sherlock's leg for some sort of comfort.

"Well." he managed to get out.

"You've gained three pounds."

"Mycroft's gained a stone."

"Yes, but he's _important_, mon cher." she quipped back easily, undoing a ruby hair pin from her raven curls, letting them spill across her shoulders. Yes, Sherlock was indeed very much like his mother. "He has a proper career, he's smart. What do you do? Run around London with whatever poor soul decides to take pity on you?"

My muscles stiffened as much as Sherlock's at that, and I shot Mycroft a glare from hell. _This_ was what he meant by 'Christmas is always a disaster.' _This _was why he was so edgy... every Christmas was just a time for his own mother to tear him down. And how could she not think Sherlock was smart? He was the smartest person who ever lived! And he didn't sit behind a fucking government desk and fix Korean elections, he went out and saved people.

"As I've explained, I do chemistry and I'm a consultant for the police." Sherlock replied evenly. It was amazing he was even talking, because my mind was still frantically trying to put a filter on my vocal chords so I didn't end up getting Sherlock in an even deeper hole with his family than they already cast him into.

Mummy Holmes simply smiled, revealing her pearls for teeth, and then laughed, exposing the underside of her long, elegant neck, and protruding her collarbones even more. "How precious. Listen, Sherlock, I know you're not the brightest one in the room, but you are capable of more."

I felt myself moving slightly, as if I was trying to stand up, but there was a sudden pressure on my knee, and I looked down to see Sherlock squeezing it, signaling me to stay still. So I complied, but sent Mycroft another glare, this time probably from Lucifer from himself, and fisted the hem of my jumper tightly.

"Of course, Mummy."

"You could even be a musician if you so desired. That is one thing you do exceptionally well, mon cher, playing that violin of yours." she continued with a graceful wave of her hand. I felt the need to break it. And then, her silver eyes slithered over to me, and she continued smiling. "And you, Dr. Elizabeth Aplin," her voice had lost all friendliness, but her expression hadn't. "What do you do?"

I knew she probably already knew everything about me from one look, and her question was all for the formality. So I returned her smile and spat, "I'm the poor soul that runs around London with your son." Her eyes lit up in excitement, and I could tell she got off on seeing how much she could push a person. "But other than that, I'm just a doctor at a clinic. What do you do?"

"Sit around in this big house all day. How's the PTSD?"

"Loves your company. How's your sex life? I'm a doctor, just medically curious."

"Nonexistent. Possibly why I'm so tense, but don't try to psychoanalyze someone who does it better, darling." she paused, still _glowing_. "How's yours?"

"On hold." I lied with a convincing smile. Truth was, I had never actually had sex, but that was no one's business. Plenty of people chose to remain celibate for several reasons, and it wasn't something to be mocked, but respected, just as someone's decision to enter a sexual relationship was to be respected as well. Mummy Holmes clapped her hands together in glee and let out a small burst of laughter. "Oh, you are a _gem_. Did you know that Sherlock's afraid of sex?"

"Sex does not alarm me." he interjected, hand so tight around my knee that it actually hurt now. I was studying his face carefully, but it was unreadable as always.

"How would you know?" she asked, leaning forward so her elbow was supported by her thigh.

And with that, his touch from me evaporated, and he sank into the sofa. While his face was still unreadable, his posture wasn't, and I could tell that he felt humiliated and ashamed. So, carefully as not to alarm him, I extended two fingers on my already outstretched hand, and slowly traced small circles into the underside of his wrist. _It's okay,_ I wanted to say. _It's okay, it's normal, I understand. You're not doing something wrong, you're mother's just a bitch. I'm so sorry I insisted that you come here, or that you even consider giving these vile people gifts. I'm so, so, so sorry._

* * *

We didn't make it to dinner. Partly because I couldn't stand another moment around the people who were supposed to love Sherlock, and mostly because I caught Sherlock staring at himself in the mirror, poking at his face, squinting, trying to find find something wrong. That was what sent me over the edge; Sherlock was a egotistical arse a majority of the time, but I don't care how much of a prick someone is, you don't treat them like that. Ever.

So I phoned a cab, regardless of how much it was going to cost to get back into London, and then phoned my mother, asking if she needed two extra people to help eat leftovers.

"C'mon," I said, waltzing into his room and throwing his suit bag over my shoulder when the cabbie pulled up to the manor.

"What are you doing?" he asked incredulously.

"Well, I'm leaving, and I'd like it if you'd left with me."

And for the first time since I had forced him out the door this morning, Sherlock smiled, and all but danced out of the room and into the cab. He didn't stop smiling, despite Mycroft's yelling and Mummy Holmes flinging a glass at him (and thankfully missing); he smiled all the way to my parents' stoop.

"What are we doing here?" he asked as I beckoned him out of the back. "I thought we'd just go home - "

The front door opened excitedly, revealing my mother in one of her atrocious Christmas jumpers, and a giant smile plastered on her face. "Sherlock!" she beamed. "I'm so glad you decided to come over."

* * *

Watching Sherlock interact with my parents was probably one of the funniest things I had ever witnessed; he didn't understand my father's sense of humour, and he didn't understand my mother's necessity to hug him every hour on the hour (I probably should have explained that we weren't actually together), and he didn't understand why they insisted on talking to a 'high-functioning sociopath.' But even though he didn't understand these things, his laugh still found its way out at whatever dry joke my father produced, he came away from one of my mother's bone-crushing hugs slightly flushed and pleased, and he had never looked so happy to explain the chemical changes a cadaver underwent when my father asked about it as my mother and I did the dishes.

"He's an odd one, you know," my mother whispered as I handed her a warm, soapy plate. "With his cheekbones and coat and all. But really, he's not so bad."

"He isn't. He just isn't used to things like this."

"So how long have you been dating?"

I dropped the plate I was washing back into the sink by surprise, and nearly splashed water all over myself. "We aren't..." I started awkwardly, hoping my mother wouldn't get angry. Instead, she gave me _the look_. Growing up, getting _the look_ was probably the worst thing that could happen, because it meant she knew something I didn't. "We're not." I repeated firmly, scrubbing the dish. "I like the new china." I added, changing the subject.

"Thanks. I seriously have no idea where the old set went. Just disappeared out of thin air." she paused, and I could hear the end of one of Sherlock's case tales. "I see the way you look at him, you know. Like he's the center of everything."

And as much as I wanted to argue with her, I couldn't, because the reality was that Sherlock was the center of everything that I dealt with on a daily basis. Suddenly the world had condensed down to a very, very, very small space, and I was having a difficult time breathing as the outer edges of a panic attack welled up. "It's not like that. Promise."

My mother nodded, unconvinced, and then threw me out of the kitchen so she could get the eggnog and ice cream.

* * *

By the time we stumbled back to Baker Street, it was close to midnight. In a twisted turn of events, Sherlock had given my mother the ruby pendant he had originally planned on giving to his mother, and my father smiled and vowed to take up calligraphy with the quill and wax seal set. But 221B was dark and quiet and familiar, and I had decided that next year there would be no family visits during the holidays, and began taking down decorations.

As I was removing the lights from the mantel, I noticed a small box addressed to Sherlock on it, and called him away from his microscope to open it. It must've been from Mrs. Hudson. But on the inside was a mobile, and judging by the sudden sadness in his eyes, I knew it was important.

"I need you to send a text to Mycroft," he instructed, putting the phone back in the box and setting it on the arm of his chair. "Tell him that they will find Ms. Adler dead."

And I thought I understood Sherlock's loss as I typed out and sent the text, even though it wasn't really a loss at all. She was the first person outside of his wretched family that was equal to him, and hadn't completely shunned him. She was also the first person to probably interest him on several levels; to have that feeling ripped away must leave one feeling empty and alone once again. I prepared myself for a Sherlockian sulk during the last few minutes of Christmas, but to my surprise, it only lasted two minutes.

"Tea?" he asked me after the two minutes were up. And by 'Tea?' he meant, 'Could you make some tea so I don't have to move?' I obliged, and when I brought back two cups, there was a small box on the coffee table in front of my usual spot. Sherlock was standing in front of the window, his back to me, as he prepared his violin. I picked up the box to find _Elizabeth - SH_ written on the small tag.

Curious, I gently tore away the paper to find a small velvet box inside. It was bigger than a ring box, but smaller than a necklace case. On the inside, though, was a small, silver locket. I carefully opened the locket, figuring there was something inside, like a picture of a corpse or some poison powder to use in case of emergencies, but nothing was there, except the tiny engraving, _One could do worse than be a swinger of birches._

Sherlock's violin strings wailed out a sad melody as I clasped the locket around my neck, trying to get accustomed to the unfamiliar, cold weight that fell directly above my bullet scar, covering a good portion of it. And I watched him, confused and touched, trying to figure out what the appropriate thing to say was, or if I should say anything at all. When he finished his song (it was new, he must've written it), he turned around, worrying the bottom corner of his lip slightly, and took a long drink of tea. I still couldn't say anything, because I told him not to get me anything, but he had anyway, and he had "Birches" engraved on the inside, and -

"You said I had to get family something for Christmas, so... well, you read "Birches" a lot, I can tell by the thinness of the top corner of the page that you've flipped to it, held the corner a lot. And it fits right over the large part of your scar, so you could feel a little more comfortable wearing - "

"Sherlock, please." I smiled softly, rising from my spot on the sofa, hand absently playing with the metal now hanging around my neck. I was thankful I had remembered to put gauze on my burn, otherwise it would've been impossible to wear. "I love it, really." I wound around the coffee table and stood in front of him, smiling and trying to reassure him that he hadn't screwed up, that it was wonderful. And then, out of impulse (I blame the eggnog), I pressed my lips into his cheek, pulled back, and said, "Merry Christmas, Sherlock." before heading to the kitchen to clean out the kettle so I wouldn't have to do it in the morning.

* * *

**Not going to lie. I wrote this chapter because it made me feel better. So yeah. Angst and lovely Irene Adler next ****chapter.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Wrote this while incredibly sick and can't be damned to give a damn how it turned out.** **Here's a chapter from our leading man's perspective. I think I made it a little steamy (well, 'steamy' for me), because I'm sick and not in my right mind. But seriously, why the hell not?**

* * *

She fiddles with the locket around her neck, obviously unsure how to react; makes me nervous, because I have gotten it wrong again. Even if I have, she still won't say anything, because she's Elizabeth. She eats breakfast for her mother even though she isn't hungry, she bandages me up even though she's the one hurt, so she will keep the locket even though she doesn't like it. Why does she do these things? It's ridiculous, it's time-consuming. I don't understand why a supernova would stay on the horizon when it could engulf the planet instead, taking it all, leaving nothing behind, and move on to something else. But she stays, the quiet supernova on the horizon. Always, always, always.

Finish piece, instantly take a drink of tea to keep my body busy, to keep moving. My tongue decides to move as well. "You said I had to get something for family..." spills out of my mouth, and I will it to shut, but it doesn't. Blurt out the deduction of "Birches," trying not to cringe. People don't like personal deductions uninvited, wait for her to tell me it's a bit not good, just like John used to.

But she's standing in front of me, sushing me with her soft words. She says my name which such _softness_ that I regain control over my vocal processes. "I love it." she says before bidding me a merry Christmas and pressing a chaste kiss into my cheek, and disappearing into the kitchen to wash the few dishes that have congregated there. Face feels warm, the shift threatens to drag me under this time, but I reorient and anchor myself in my mind.

I hear her in the kitchen, delicately dealing with various things. It's a drastic difference between here and Afghanistan, but she needs chaos, she needs danger. I am her danger, her chaos (black hole), and she is my order, moral compass (supernova). She is the guiding light on the horizon, and I absolutely despise it. Must run a thorough experiment when Ms. Adler pays us a visit - faked her death for protection, sent her phone in the one place it would be kept safe (here).

Stack of paper drops behind me (three file folders, ten pages per folder, six paper clips distributed throughout), hear Elizabeth climb the steps and her door shuts. Turn around to see my deduction is correct (of course), but there's a note on top. "Molly has two cadavers set aside as well. - Elizabeth" rests upon the first folder of a cold case. Smile creeps to my lips; was expecting a few cold cases, but the cadavers are a pleasant surprise (wonderful).

* * *

I don't sleep on cases, even cold ones. But after two texts to Lestrade with details of the first two (solved) cases, my eyelids are heavy, my spine is curling in on itself (must be from the rich food at Elizabeth's parents'). Drag myself to bed, and before I can pull the duvet over, I am gone, limp against the mattress and pillow.

_"Sherlock," Elizabeth's voice echoes throughout the building, but she is not in the flat. Search everywhere, but cannot piece it together. I am uncharacteristically slow, which is frustrating. But she keeps calling my name. Go downstairs to the basement flat (the one where Carl Power's shoes were), and her voice rings from behind the closed door._ _I open it._

_She is sitting in a bathtub, her bare back to me, hair swept over her left shoulder. It is deathly silent, but somehow I know what I am supposed to do. I am scared, I want to leave, but I stay; white noise fills my head as I walk towards the tub, rolling up my shirtsleeves to the elbow. Kneel behind her, the porcelain a wonderful barrier, and my breath is frozen low in my chest. Something is changing, something is happening, but I'm not sure what, and I'm so damn _slow_ and it's - _

_Her hand is reaching over her bare shoulder, passing me a bar of soap (cucumber) and a washcloth (damp). She sits up straighter, exposing more of her back, and suddenly my fingers are thick and useless, my stomach is uncomfortably warm. I shakily touch the soap to her skin, and she sighs contentedly, so I continue, rubbing it in small circles across her shoulder blades, down her spine and fan out over her ribs. Her skin is warm, cucumber fills my nose, and her muscles tighten minutely as my hands brush the small of her back. Dip the washcloth in the water again, and follow my path I had made with the soap, feeling my stomach suddenly _crunch_ in an unfamiliar way._

_Hate being this out of control, this slow; savoring every moment of it simultaneously. My head is quiet, my eyes are dragging slowly, slowly, _slowly_ over her skin as the cloth skirts across the small of her back, and then back up, claiming unconquered flesh along the way. My thumb slides over the dip where her shoulder connects to her neck, and she _shudders_, and I want to know what cucumber soap and skin taste like, but I could never, I could never..._

_Let the cloth skate back down, mesmerized by the water beads racing each other back to their origin. "Sherlock," she whispers._

My pillow is hot against my cheek, someone is pulling the duvet from the opposite side. Quickly roll over to see Ms. Adler nestling in to the other pillow, eyes smirking, teasing, taunting, seductive. I wait, wait, wait, and no shift comes for her. Why doesn't it come for her? Why can't it come for her?

"What were you dreaming about?" she whispers, scooting closer, closer, until our knees are touching. Still, the shift doesn't come. My stomach crunches at the recent memory; if I ever did have nocturnal emissions as an adolescent, I deleted them. They are useless, completely irrelevant to the work. I simply stare at her, and her red lips twist into a smile - she knows. She is difficult to read, and it is somehow comforting. She is a very delicate, dangerous dance partner, but it is refreshing to dance with someone who can finally hear the same music (someone who isn't Mycroft) for once.

"So you _do_ have an appetite. Let's have dinner," she continues, elegant finger tracing my collarbone underneath the duvet.

"Not hungry," I retort, voice scratchy. Close my eyes once again as I roll onto my back, but sleep doesn't come. Ms. Adler's finger disappears, so her head can rest on my chest; her arms wind around my midsection, and I don't open my eyes until I feel her breathing slow and even out. I stare at the ceiling, pondering the third case for a few minutes, only to find myself thinking of the dream. My face flushes as I grind my molars together, reorient to the case. Two minutes later (I counted), my mind wanders again, and I let out a sigh loud enough that Ms. Adler stirs slightly.

By the time she is still once more, I have deleted the dream. I solve the third case by sunrise, and I watch the light spill through the window and onto Ms. Adler's dark hair. Her weight is comfortable on my chest, her breathing is a comfortable rhythm. Hesitantly, I let my hand rest between her shoulder blades, and wait, wait, wait, but the shift still doesn't come.

I mentally curse myself, and nearly thrash in the sheets, because it's _not making any sense_. If the shift should come for anyone, it should be for Ms. Adler. She is the logical, clear choice here. But it doesn't.

It's not until Elizabeth knocks on the door that it does.

* * *

**And zero cares were given, because I'm currently living with my head in a trash can.**


	18. Chapter 18

**If you're randomly hugged by a stranger, it's probably me. Because I want to hug every single one of you (I'm no longer sick, so it'll be totally cool and only a little bit creepy) for being so wonderful.**

* * *

I was struggling to see who was calling me so early; my eyes couldn't focus in the sudden bright light of my screen, but when they finally made out Lestrade's name, I brushed my ratted hair out of my face and swiped to answer. "Lestrade, it's four-thirty," I greeted. "If you're looking for phone sex, you should just wake up your wife and have actual sex. Doctor's orders."

"Elizabeth," he sighed, voice heavy and worn out. Granted, it was four-thirty, so he _should_ sound as exhausted, but there was an extra layer to it that made my smirk disappear. "Christ, I... I didn't want to be the one to ask you this, especially the day after Christmas,"

"Ask me what, Lestrade?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, and I could all but see him scrubbing his hands down his face. "I need you to come identify your father's body at St. Bart's."

A familiar sense of numb detachment quickly enveloped my mind before my emotions could catch up (old army trick), and I sat straight up, my body at attention and ready for orders. "Elizabeth, I'm sorry - "

"It's fine." I cut back, feeling a lead weight somewhere in my chest anchoring me to my body, my bones, so I wouldn't accidentally float away. I had to stay detached, but I had to also stay in my logical mind. I had a job to do, I had things that were still required of me, regardless of whatever happened. The world just kept on turning and turning, not blinking once, never questioning. I thought I understood what it felt like to _have_ to keep going even when everything was falling out from under you. And out of all of the things I thought I understood, this was one of the few I did. "Be there shortly."

I got up and pulled on yesterday's jeans and jumper, didn't even blink at my bed head, and made a beeline for Sherlock's room. Out of everyone on the planet, he would know what to do, and he could fix it. Sherlock could fix this because he was the madman with nicotine patches, the one who could take one look at the shirt I was wearing and know I had been shot in the chest, tell me my military history by my hair... yes, Sherlock could fix this.

My knuckles hit the wood on his door, and out of courtesy I waited a few seconds before walking in, but when I did, I had to suppress the urge to scream. Sherlock was in bed, his arm lazily wound around a sleeping Irene Adler, _who was supposed to be dead_. He had told me to send Mycroft a text saying that she was _dead_, deceased, no longer living, void of life, however the fuck you want to phrase it. Point: Irene Adler was very much _alive_, and comfortably nestled on Sherlock's chest; Sherlock lied to me, and that was on par with the fact that I was having to go into town to _identify my father's body the day after Christmas_.

"Yes?" he asked, eyes still trained on his ceiling. Ms. Adler pressed her face deeper into his chest, and I forced a lump down in my throat. That entire situation was honestly the least of my concerns at the moment, but it was just enough pressure to push me over the edge and make my eyes sting. She was alive when she was supposed to be dead, my father was dead when he was supposed to be alive.

"Going to Bart's. See you at a crime scene later." I croaked, the locket around my neck suddenly much too heavy.

* * *

St. Bartholomew's was always too bright and smelled of too much disinfectant, but for some reason it was overwhelming this morning. It was assaulting me the entire length of the walk to the morgue, where I found Lestrade, Donovan, and Molly patiently waiting, not even bothering to make awkward small talk. Six eyes were on me as soon as I entered the morgue, letting the door slam shut behind me.

"Where's my mother?" I demanded, striding over to the black body bag.

"In questioning." Donovan replied. "I thought Freak would be here with you," she added, but her tone implied it gently rather than a curse against Sherlock. What she was trying to say was, "I thought Sherlock would be here with you for support."

"Sherlock's finally asleep," I (partially) lied. "He'll be at the crime scene later."

I didn't wait for Molly to unzip the bag and took the liberty of doing it myself, revealing my father's face, and I felt my eyes sting again. There he was, eyes closed as if he was taking a nap on the sofa after reading the paper. There he was, the only person to ever look me dead in the face and physically say, "I don't understand what happened to you, but I love you." when I felt like I was so alone that no one could possibly even fathom where to start with it. There he was, my protector, the almighty healer of scraped knees and bad days at school and sneaking ice cream after dinner, and the one who called me every Sunday at basic training just to give me a week in review from the papers. And there he was, dead on the metal table.

And that hurt more than any bullet, or any dominatrix curled up with a consulting detective.

"That's him." I said flatly, zipping the bag back up and turning to face Lestrade. "Call me when you're ready for Sherlock." I added, starting towards the door, but a hand gripped my bicep. "Lizzy, take a break. I can call _Sherlock_ when I'm ready for him." Lestrade said.

I stared at his fingers and the way they curved over my arm; I wanted to break them, but I also wanted to squeeze them and cry into them. What I really wanted was to go home and shower, brush my hair and teeth, and then curl up in my softest clothes and sleep for a very, very long time. But I can't, because Sherlock will destroy the flat and wear too many nicotine patches.

"We both know I can't actually do that, Lestrade." I smiled. If I didn't smile, I knew my lip would quiver and it would all be over from there. I was not allowed to fall apart. I had kept it together through a fucking war, through watching people die, through dealing with Sherlock and his ridiculous quirks. So I was _not_ allowed to fall apart now. I pulled my arm free from his grasp and walked out the door, not even bothering that it slammed again.

* * *

The front door of 221B slammed in a similar fashion to the way the morgue door slammed, but no one made any complaints about it. I was surprised to see Sherlock out of bed, though, dressed in his usual suit and perched in front of his microscope with a cup of tea. The ends of his hair were still damp from his shower, and usually I would find that endearing, but at the moment I just wanted to make everything disappear.

Ignoring him completely, I went straight to the kettle to find no hot water left; I felt myself getting ready to slam it down on the stovetop, but forced it down gently instead and flicked on the gas. There was no use in taking my anger out on household appliances, considering they would only have to be replaced later.

"Sherlock, does she have _anything_ more attractive than these oversized jumpers?" Ms. Adler's voice grew nearer as she rounded the corner to the kitchen, wearing a pair of my jeans and one of the few v-neck jumpers I owned (a certain scar kept me from owning too many v-neck anythings). I rolled my eyes and fought the urge to hit her as well, because she _still_ looked better than me in my own clothing. Hitting and slamming were my ways of keeping it together, because they were the two things I could control when everything else was beyond it. "Good morning, sunshine," she winked when she saw me.

I blinked at her as a form of response, and then turned to Sherlock and said in the coldest voice I could, "If my mobile rings, answer it. I'm expecting a call from Lestrade, we have a case."

"I'm a bit busy." he replied coolly, never taking his eyes away from the microscope.

"I don't _care_, Sherlock. We have a case."

"Since when have _you_ dictated what cases _I_ take?" he demanded, sitting back from the instrument and glaring at me. He seemed just as conflicted as I was; several things were flicking across his eyes, and his mouth was set in a severe line like he was on the verge of a black mood again. Usually I would try to coax him into explaining what was going on in his head, using soft words and carding my fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. But today was not one of those days. Today was a day that I needed him to return the favor, but he wasn't. He would never do that, and I don't know why I ever expected him to. I don't know what I thought had started to happen between us over the holidays, but whatever it was had obviously just been a figment of my imagination.

"Can you answer my calls for the next fifteen minutes please?" I turned to Ms. Adler, who was watching us with sick admiration.

"Of course." she smiled, and I nodded, and that was that.

* * *

Actually showering was difficult, because I kept choking on steam every time I tried to take a deep breath to steady myself. All I could think of was my dad. He had always been there, he had always been the moon in the middle of the night. When I was in Afghanistan and I had had a rough day, and I could call, I would. And he would pick up, and tell me that what happened, happened. And I would tell him how horribly, horribly alone I felt out in the middle of the desert, even though I was surrounded by people just like me, and he would tell me that the moon I was looking at was the same moon he was looking at. I would always laugh and tell him that was ridiculous, but I never told him how much it actually helped.

My dad taught me several things, because we had always gotten along better than my mother and I. He taught me how to play chess, but I never beat him, because he never went easy. And he always helped me on my maths in school, because I was shit at maths, but he was brilliant at them. He could look at a problem and tell me the answer before I could finish writing it down, and I would get _so mad _at him, but then he would patiently talk me through the steps until I knew how to do it on my own. He taught me how to shampoo my hair when I was five; helped me learn how to do it without getting it in my eyes, but he would always help me wash any shampoo out of my eyes that managed to worm its way in. He also taught me how to raise my brow instead of my voice, which was something the army quickly tried to undo, and he helped me find the balance between the two.

We had the same sense of humor, so whatever made one of us laugh would make the other one crack up. Aside from John, my dad was the single most hopeful, kind soul I had ever met, and I would probably still think that if I wasn't his daughter. He left a Christmas card for the mailman, he remembered the birthdays of people I never bothered to learn the names of, and he never left a conversation angry.

And most importantly, my dad never made me feel unwanted or unloved, no matter how many times I screwed up. Even when the number quickly surpassed the amount of fingers and toes the both of us had combined. And to know that he wasn't here anymore was more painful than anything else at the moment, because tonight when I saw the moon it wouldn't matter that it was the same one he saw a million times, because he was no longer seeing it.

I thought I understood what it would be like to loose the moon in your night sky. I did not.

* * *

**Angsty enough for you? Hope you remember earlier chapters. *hint* (By the way, I got a letter from my best friend who's at basic training, so it's like I don't even care how shitty this chapter was.) Also dedicated to my dad, because I miss him. He's still living, but I just miss him.**


	19. Chapter 19

**But really. Holy crap. I know I say this a lot, but I legitimately cannot thank you guys enough. For everything. Even if you read one chapter and said, "This is shit." and never revisited. Oh my gosh. Just... wow. This isn't even a popular thing, and I'm over the moon.**

* * *

Sherlock hadn't budged from his position at the microscope, but Ms. Adler was leaning against his back, trying to see something over him, and a hot wave of misplaced hatred slithered down my spine. Everything was so, so, _so_ wrong, so backwards that I was having a hard time even trying to comprehend what I was seeing. A ghost was in the kitchen, a person was in a body bag. Someone I trusted had lied, someone I loved was dead. And yet the world just kept _going_.

"Do get dressed, Elizabeth. You're getting water on the floor." Sherlock hissed; ah, yes, one of his black moods was definitely in full swing, and there was no way I could deal with that today. He would just have to loathe the entire galaxy, because I wasn't putting up with it. Hell, at this rate I probably wasn't even staying the night, and I lived here.

I clutched my towel impossibly tighter around me and tried to come up with something awful to snap back, but I couldn't. I was tired to my bones, and a specific type of tired I hadn't felt since I first landed in the hospital, staring at the tented ceiling and waiting for someone to come and tell me I was doing great. It was like the nurses and doctors were trying to force-feed me some dopamine that my neurons refused to produce or reuptake. But instead of nurses and doctors and hot sand, I had Sherlock and Ms. Adler, and I wanted to kill both of them.

"Be nice, Sherlock," Ms. Adler quipped, running a graceful hand through his unruly hair. Bile rose up in the back of my throat as he mumbled out a vague apology and adjusted the microscope once again. _Everything was just wrong, wrong, wrong._ Before I knew what I was doing, I was standing in front of my closet, numbly unhooking a jumper from the hanger. I don't really remember drying off or dressing myself, but I remember someone running a comb through my hair, pulling, twisting it back into a braid. "He's a bit grumpy this morning." Ms. Adler's voice slithered into my head, and I quickly realized she was braiding my wet hair.

I replied with a neutral grunt, and she laughed before sliding her arms around my shoulders in an awkward embrace that wasn't necessarily meant to be comforting, but it was. It was also incredibly bizarre to think that just a few hours ago I believed she was dead, but here she was. Another ripple of anger gripped around my ribs and _squeezed_ until I had to draw a wheezing breath. Sherlock had told me that she was dead, and I believed him, because he was Sherlock. We were honest with each other; we were flatmates and friends, and... well, that's all we were, right? Someone I held in high regards, someone I trusted, had lied to me, and that coupled with my father's death made for rather a lot of emotional repression I was having to do.

But there was something still comforting about Ms. Adler's arms around my shoulders, something so uncharacteristically kind and understanding that I didn't snap at her, I didn't pull away. Surprisingly, Ms. Adler was the only one who was managing to be sympathetic (if she even knew what to be sympathetic about) without being sappy or treating me like a child. She wasn't actually coddling me, but rather quietly acknowledging that I was upset, and trying to (in her own way) make it a bit easier. I thought I understood her; I had put her (not too kindly) so high up in the sky that I forgot she even knew what it was like to walk on the ground. Of everyone here, Ms. Adler probably was the one most accustomed to heartache and alienation, because that was her business. I thought I understood her, but I didn't, not really.

"Chin up, Soldier," she began sternly, withdrawing her arms and circling around to smudge something on my lips. I didn't like the feeling of it, it was too heavy, too unnatural. "And remember, you cannot carry the entire world with only two hands." out of thin air, she presented me with my phone, which had a missed call from Lestrade.

"What are you implying?" I choked. My voice sounded scratchy, like I had been screaming for a few hours straight, and I nearly didn't recognize it.

"I'm saying that it's okay to admit you need a third and a fourth to help you along. Hands are important; you're a doctor, you of all people should know that." her tone added suggestibility to her words, but underneath it, I knew what she was really saying.

"Do you even know what happened?" I asked. She shook her head no, and then left. I stared at the empty space in my doorway for a few minutes, trying to decide whether I should call Lestrade back and tell him that Sherlock was impossible today, or whether I should go downstairs and pick a fight with the madman with nicotine patches. Curling up in bed and sleeping until bodily functions demanded that I get up for a few minutes at a time seemed so much more inviting. But what was easy was not always what had to be done; true, there were selfish motives behind this, but still, it was the principle that mattered.

John chose me for a reason. I had just (semi)successfully navigated through the holidays (though New Year's was still coming up), so I could get through this. I could get through _all_ of this... right? I pushed myself off of the bed and stood up, focusing on how the muscles and tendons stretched wonderfully, tucked my phone in my back pocket, and stiffly descended the stairs.

Sherlock hadn't strayed from the microscope, and I heard the shower running, so it was safe to assume Ms. Adler was out of the room. If there was ever a time to do this, it was now. "Sherlock," I said soft but stern, awkwardly standing in the doorway of the kitchen. I had to be so, so delicate here, and as I had learned earlier, barging in did nothing except make him dig his toes in deeper, especially during his black moods. "I'm going to come into the kitchen."

He replied with an annoyed sigh, but I ignored it and took slow, steady steps in, my bare feet barely patting against the tile. I had to be _so_ careful here - one wrong word would send him into a childish fit, and convincing him to do anything would be futile. It was similar to soothing a wild animal; the lines in his shoulders told me that he heard me, but he was tense and ready to fling harsh words at any moment. That was the one thing I was grateful for: I never was _afraid_ of Sherlock, I always knew he wouldn't lay a hand on me. All of our quarrels were verbal, and we took out our individual frustration on other things (he, the wall; me, going for walks).

So, as delicately as I could, I pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, placing my hands on the table in front of me where he could clearly see them with the use of his peripherals. The goal was to appear as harmless as possible, so I didn't say anything for a few minutes until I saw the tension in his shoulders decrease.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry I was demanding earlier," I began, keeping an even tone. "It was out of line for me to try to force a case on you, especially after everything that happened yesterday. But... but I really need you to take this case."

And just like that, the tension in his back and shoulders reappeared, and he slammed his hands down on the table. It was enough to make me flinch, but I wasn't scared. If on the off chance he actually wanted to pick a fight, I would be more than happy to take him on. I had enough emotions fueling me for the next six months.

"What makes you think _your_ _need_ has anything to do with _me_?" he spat, leaning back and giving me one of the worst glares he had ever thrown since the night we met.

"Because you're the only person who can fix this - "

"Don't make people into heroes, Elizabeth. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." he was strikingly calm then, and then added viciously, "Fix it yourself."

The stinging in my eyes returned, and something hot and warm was trailing down my cheeks. I had never felt quite this hopeless, this desperate before. I worried my bottom lip incessantly, and felt more warmth on my face, and averted my eyes to the table so I could wipe it away with my sleeve. The corner of the fabric slipped past my lips and I clamped my teeth around it as some last-ditch effort to keep myself together as new wet tracks slid down my skin.

I think that was the worst kind of sadness to have, to be so full yet nothing could ever really come out, so you sat there with tear tracks and gnawing on your sleeves because everything was gnawing at your heart, saying nothing. I knew I couldn't change his mind, so I would have to trust Lestrade's team would work hard as they always did. Once I felt safe enough to remove my sleeve from my mouth, I absently played with the locket around my neck, turning it over and over, feeling as the metal warmed under my touch. Last night seemed a century ago, it was a century since I had kissed Sherlock's cheek and felt my parents' embrace and rescued Sherlock from his terrible relatives.

But the point was that so much had happened in such a short amount of time that I wasn't processing it. And right now, when I needed Sherlock, he refused to be there, even though I had never thought twice about being there whenever it was necessary. I needed a few days away from 221B, from madmen with nicotine patches who slept with dead dominatrixes behind my back, from experiments and violin music and yelling at the telly...

A bumpy breath found its way into my lungs, and I reached over and placed my hand over one of his, squeezing it gently before saying, "Yeah, yeah. Okay. I'm going to go pack an overnight bag. I'll see you at some point." and rising from my spot at the table. There was a strange heaviness in my stomach as I climbed the stairs, haphazardly threw a few changes of clothes in a small bag, and texted Lestrade, asking if my mother was out of questioning yet.

* * *

My mother was hysterical. I had never seen her so upset in my entire life, but that was to be expected. She wept as soon as she saw me enter the interrogation room, clinging to me like her life depended on it. Her nails dug into my biceps as I lifted her out of the chair, draping my coat around her shoulders and pulling her into a bathroom to fix her hair. It was tangled and frayed, but she was silent while I ran a comb through it and pulled it back in a bun. Her eyes were red and swollen, dark circles curled underneath. They were vacant of life, just brown pools surrounding a black pupil.

Neither of us spoke when they released her from custody and took a cab to Uncle Hugh's, who insisted we stay with him until the house was open again. "Besides," he said solemnly. "We have... things to arrange."

My mother and Uncle Hugh spent a lot of time in the kitchen, holding mugs filled with cold tea that neither dared to drink out of. After a few hours, they progressed to small whispers that only carried for short periods before my mother began crying, or Uncle Hugh's voice caught in his throat, and then they were back at square one. But Uncle Hugh knew how my mother was feeling more than anyone, because he lost his Sharon when I was ten. Hugh had lost his wife, and now he had lost his brother.

And I thought I understood why bad things happened to good people. But really... I didn't. And honestly, I don't think I ever want to understand, because some things in this world have to be kept unknown, otherwise the weight of everything would crush you where you stood.

* * *

It was going to take nearly a week before my mother could return home, but around day three, I realized I hadn't packed nearly enough, so I was having to do an embarrassing amount of laundry because I wasn't up to returning to the flat. I wasn't up to doing much of anything, but thankfully Uncle Hugh let me keep busy by doing whatever chores needed to be done, which included occasionally watching Cousin Emily's newborn baby (his granddaughter), Alice, while Emily was at work (something about not taking maternal leave).

And if I wasn't being called into the clinic, I was more than happy to watch Alice for the day. It gave me a sense of purpose, a feeling of being needed; plus, it wasn't like I was ever going to be a mother at this rate, so it was a nice make believe. Alice was generally a happy baby, and at this age she spent most of her time sleeping, so when Emily asked if I could watch Alice for New Year's Eve, I agreed instantly.

Everything was going smoothly - Alice had been played with, cooed at, adorned with more kisses than I could possibly count, fed, burped, put in a fresh nappy, and was currently clinging onto my sweater as I patiently bounced and rocked her as I paced across the dim living room. She was a bit of a night owl for a baby, so getting her to fall asleep was always the longest part of the night. But surely enough, I felt her chubby cheek rest against my shoulder and her grip on my sweater tighten, just the way it always did right before she drifted off, and I couldn't resist planting another soft kiss into the side of her head as her grip slacked.

I continued pacing with her until I was certain that she was truly asleep, and eventually laid her down in the play pin, and flopped down on the couch, wrapping my arms tight around the pillow and pressing my face into it. My nightmares had come back with vengeance, making me sit straight up from sleep, shaking and terrified. Most were of Afghanistan, where I was awake while they did surgery on me; I watched Brook cut me open, and just begin stabbing. And I would watch as he would move from me to my father, stabbing him over and over and over...

Usually, Sherlock's violin would play. I never realized how I had grown dependent on the soft strings until now, but a bubble of _something_ rose in my chest. He hadn't done anything, he hadn't even tried to contact me. The only outside communication I was willing to receive was from Sarah or Lestrade, but that was because they _were_ the only people who ever contacted me. Outside of Sherlock, I hadn't built many relationships, and my absence from the flat was making that appallingly obvious. I needed other relationships. I should probably try my hand at dating (not married men, though), but that always seemed boring. And the fact that I hadn't taken off the locket at all (save to shower) wasn't helping matters either. But the necklace was comfortable and hit my scar well; it was a familiar weight around my neck and chest.

I groaned softly and pressed my face deeper into the pillow, trying to shut my brain off, when a faint vibration alerted my attention. My phone signaled that I had a text from Lestrade, which simply read: "**Case solved, but we had to bring Mycroft into it.**"

**Thank you, Greg. I understand your team worked really hard, and it's not unappreciated.** I replied, a sense of ease squirming its way into my chest. Maybe tonight I would sleep better, even though I didn't know all of the details. They probably couldn't tell me until later this week anyway, but just knowing that they had figured it all out was a huge relief.

**You're welcome, but we both know we didn't do much.**

**What do you mean? **I asked, my brows furrowed in confusion. If this was his way of being humble about the whole thing, it was a really weird way of being humble.

**Sherlock showed up, kicked everyone out of the crime scene, and solved the thing. Didn't you know that? You did put him up to it.**

I sat up, my eyes scanning over the text again, and again, and _again_ until the words were blurring together and my eyes were drying out from lack of blinking. My thoughts went from an uncontrolled fifty-thousand to one, singular thing, but I didn't know how to feel about it. _He had actually gone and solved it for me. He took the case for me. He took the case, he took the case._

Before I could reply, Emily was quietly unlocking the front door, and greeting me in hushed tones. "How was she?" she whispered.

"Great, as usual."

Emily picked up the sleeping Alice and bundled her in a blanket before bidding me a happy New Year and driving off. Once she left, I folded up the play pin and fell back onto the couch, deciding that a bed was too far away. I kept reading Lestrade's message until the clock chimed New Years, a new message popped up in my inbox.

**Happy New Year. - SH**

Despite the fact that I wanted to deck Sherlock in his angular face again, I smiled a little. He was probably up with Ms. Adler, doing god knows what, but at the moment I didn't care.

**Haven't seen you since last year. - SH**

I didn't reply to that one either, because it was late, and I was tired, and I knew talking to him would only make everything worse. For the first time in about a week, I felt a little bit better.

**This is where you tell me not to be a smart arse. - SH**

Now, I _did_ laugh at that, because he was right. He was always right. I pulled the throw down over me and stretched so I could completely flick off the lamp, letting my eyes adjust to the dark with only the light of my phone screen glowing.

**Come home. - SH**

And there was something about Sherlock asking me to come _home_ that made my thumbs hover over the screen, debating whether or not to reply. He hadn't asked me to come _back_, he hadn't asked me to come to the _flat_, he hadn't asked me to come to _221B_ or _Baker Street_. He had asked me to come _home_. That being said, there were still a lot of hurt feelings on my side; he was so cruel sometimes that it made it hard. Plus, my family needed me right now. Cleaning up the kitchen because of an explosion and making him clean out the microwave because a pair of eyeballs melted were not on my list of priorities right now. But Sherlock had also become part of me, in some sick way. As Lestrade had warned, he had started sewing himself into the fabric of my life, and the lines between us as separate people were already beginning to blur. On some level, we were so used to coexisting that no longer doing that was odd, even for a few days, but it still didn't automatically forgive everything that had been said.

**Coffee tomorrow. Noon.** I sent back, hoping that would suffice until I made up my mind. It wasn't a solution, but it was a start.

* * *

**Sherlock next chapter. Caseeeeeees. I dunno.**


	20. Chapter 20

**It's a wonderful thing that someone requested chapter 18-19 from Sherlock's POV - that's exactly what was planned. However, this one was a bit (a lot) difficult, so advanced apologies. Oh, one last thing: fingers supah crossed that I got a certain consulting criminal right.**

* * *

Ms. Adler's weight is comfortable on my chest in bed - result is unexpected, because I never thought physical contact of someone else would be something comforting, even if it is not meant in a comforting way. Biochemical warfare; contact is certainly releasing excessive amounts of dopamine and oxytocin (unsure of vasopressin [no shift], positive about the serotonin), engraving the feeling into my brain, telling me I want it again. Nucleus accumben hasn't had this much stimulation since heroin.

Hear Elizabeth's footsteps on the stairs, heavy, tired. Most likely irritable from being awake this early (she is a night person, on weekends usually sleeps until eleven). Door opens and _slams_ shut. _Very_ irritable then. Footsteps tread towards me, and my heart pounds heavily, very conscious of my position. Feel her (upset) gaze on me, shift is on the brink of happening, but I will it away.

She ignores me and fusses with the kettle. Her motions sound harsh, sound deliberate, and sound restrained simultaneously. _Something_ about being roused at such an hour was bothering her, but most likely something she was informed of. Why would she go to Bart's alone? Doesn't make much sense; doesn't talk with Molly outside of cases, doesn't talk with Lestrade much aside from occasionally getting a pint.

Case then. Why wasn't I informed?

"Sherlock, does she have _anything_ more attractive than these oversized jumpers?" Ms. Adler's voice is matched with her gait, and she appears in the kitchen wearing a pair of Elizabeth's jeans and one of her (few) v-neck jumpers. She doesn't own many, because of her scar. The locket falls at just the right place to hide (most of) it. Shift creeps up at the thought, but I swallow it down. I can control it. I control hunger, thirst, sleep, emotions. I can control the shift. Glance up to see Ms. Adler has locked eyes with Elizabeth. "Good morning, sunshine." she winks. Elizabeth doesn't say anything.

And then her eyes are on me, her hand extended and (forcefully) carefully puts her mobile on the table beside me. "If my mobile rings, answer it. I'm expecting a call from Lestrade, we have a case." she requests coldly. The supernova is now a black hole. She is me, and she shouldn't be. That is wrong. Something else is just behind her gaze, something just far enough that I can't reach in and grab it.

The shift tries to take me, but I try to burn it out this time. "I'm a bit busy." words come out collected, much more so than I feel. Hate this, _loathe_ feeling so out of control. Must learn to control this. Hate her if I must.

"I don't _care_, Sherlock. We have a case." she presses. Let the fire lick the spaces between my ribs and curl around the muscles in my chest until the shift is scorched away, until the temporary high and warmth is forgotten. It is easier to hate her when she is me.

"Since when have _you_ dictated the cases _I_ take?" I challenge, feeling a false sense of superiority. I can control the shift much like I can control anything else. A silent whisper tries to tame the flames into candlelight, but I simply let it burn harder until there's a faint ache in my stomach. Elizabeth's eyes are searching mine for something and she finds it, but has no compassion for her discovery. She turns to Ms. Adler, asks her to take her calls, and then storms off to the bathroom.

Return to the mould culture; nothing terribly interesting (dull). Have been staring at it much too long, don't care. The air is suddenly lead, grating on my skin, seeping into my bloodstream and making me nauseous. I want to lie down in soft flannel, curl into myself until hands gently weave into my hair and my face is pressing into soft-scratchy jumpers; and I will protest, but the hands will remain, the soft-scratchy jumper will stay, letting me breathe a familiar scent in and out. When the air becomes lead and poisons me, it is impossible to sleep, because there's too much. Too much sensation everywhere, my brain won't become selective. But with gentle hands and soft-scratchy jumpers, I do.

Shirt is cutting into my skin, feel like I'm choking. Everything is dull yet too overwhelming to manage. It's absolutely _dreadful_.

"How long?" Ms. Adler's voice pulls me through, gives me something to focus on. Her question is referring to Elizabeth, and possibly how long I have been affected by the plague she brings forth. I hate it.

"Four weeks, two days, six hours, and seventeen minutes." I snap back. _God_ it hurts to talk. It hurts to hear. It hurts.

"That's quite detailed..." she trails off, which is fine. Keep rooted in front of the microscope, because it takes too much effort to move. "I like her. Strikingly plain, though."

Different type of fire kisses my ribs and squeezes my diaphragm. There is nothing _plain_ here; Ms. Adler has not seen Elizabeth when she has just woken up and stumbles downstairs for coffee, or how she reads a page of Frost over, and over, and _over_, completely unaware that she is actually looking at a book with more naked affection than she will ever understand; Ms. Adler has not seen Elizabeth at a crime scene, snarling, "Fucking Anderson." under her breath, or how she never leaves (good) food left on her plate, or how she carefully bandages up wounds she creates, because that is what she does. There is nothing _plain_ about a supernova on a horizon.

Reply with a grunt, switch the slides out for something to take me away from the lead air and fire inside me.

Precisely seventeen minutes later, Ms. Adler drapes herself across my back right as Elizabeth walks through, towel tucked around her. Something low gnaws in my abdomen, a faint memory I can't quite recall. Must have deleted it, therefore it was irrelevant. Her eyes hover over us, and the shift nearly extinguishes me as it tries to take over again. _God damn it._

"Do get dressed, Elizabeth. You're getting water on the floor." I hiss, wanting to be unconscious and away from everything. Usually, she would retort, but this time she doesn't. There's something very wrong here, and I can't put it together. Suddenly, fingers are twining in my hair (nails uncomfortably scrape against my scalp), and Ms. Adler's low, "Be nice, Sherlock." slides into my ear. I do my best to mumble out an apology out of hopes her touch will disappear. Blessedly, it does.

* * *

Ms. Adler trots downstairs and disappears to the bathroom a minute and a half before I recognize Elizabeth's steps slowly declining, and stopping in front of the kitchen. She's hesitant, but not afraid. I have never given her a reason to be afraid. "Sherlock," she says. "I'm coming into the kitchen now."

Her footsteps are soft: flesh against linoleum. She apologizes for being 'demanding' earlier, but then reiterates that she 'needs me to take the case.' Before the shift can take me, I let hatred claim me first, and lash out. Feel my lips forming horrible words, cleverly designed to hurt her, to make her angry. I am successful, going far enough to let her cry. It is an unpleasant feeling, a guilt mixed with self-hatred that I don't understand. She calmly announces that she's leaving, and despite my instinct to stop her, I let her. I let her because she touched my hand while telling me, because somehow the ghost of her touch makes everything okay, makes the universe fall back into place. It purifies the air and soothes the flames in my chest and between my ribs, keeping it upright. So I don't stop her as she treads up the stairs and then softly lets the door click behind her, because it's okay.

* * *

It's not okay. I realize that as soon as I text Lestrade, demanding information. The air quickly returns to lead and my chest and stomach ache until I _have_ to move away from the microscope and curl up on the couch. My phone buzzes with an address, a familiar one from last night, and I stare at it, confused.

Elizabeth's parents'. That can't be correct. But then again, I'm never wrong.

"Jim sends his love,"

Look up to see Ms. Adler tying my blue dressing gown around her waist, wet hair plastered to the back and falling around her face. I had suspected she was connected to Moriarty in some way, but it was still unsure of how. Most likely just an acquaintance or business colleague. Maybe even a customer.

"Said I wouldn't be able to find out your pressure points. I found them within ten minutes of meeting you." she continued, her face amused as she typed on the keys of her phone. The untouchable phone, the holder of unknown secrets that were literally worth killing over. Why else would Mycroft had put me on this case? It was arguably the most vague case I had ever taken, because the motive was still frighteningly unclear. She had compromising photographs, yes, but hadn't requested anything. They were her security, her information for blackmail. Surely there was something _more important_ than a few pictures...

But Ms. Adler is smart (not as smart as me, but smart), so she wouldn't have let me anywhere near her if she wasn't playing an angle. And apparently that angle was with Moriarty. Getting just close enough to see without having to touch - that was her work.

"He said, 'Give them a puzzle and watch them dance,' and I thought he was underestimating you. I knew Mycroft would be easy to fool, but _you_... well. I can honestly say I'm disappointed." she added, holding out her phone. "Go ahead. Search it. There's nothing on it. There never was."

No. No, there _had_ to be something. There couldn't just be nothing...

"Your ego is a big pressure point. Your need for everything to be clever is another. And those, I've already exploited. I had the Holmes boys really thinking that I had big, bad secrets on here. Why on earth would I keep them on something as mundane as a mobile?" she asked, slamming it down on the table in front of me. But do you want to know your third, Sherlock?"

My throat was clenched shut again, and my hands were curling in on themselves. No. No, this was wrong. This wasn't how everything was supposed to play out. "A certain flatmate. There are others: your landlady, that's obvious, and that _stupid_ D.I., but your flatmate is the major one here." she smiled, thumb tracing my cheekbone. No.

"And how would you deduce such an inaccurate thing?" I snap.

Ms. Adler just smiles, presses her lips into my skin, and then drops her robe, forcing herself into my lap. Her weight is not pleasant in this sense, and something akin to bile rises in the back of my throat. Feel the need to flee, to get away. "Because you loathe this. You hate this." she growls in my ear. Her breath feels oily on my skin, the air is lead, this is _wrong_. "But you took the case because she asked. That says more than anything... _detective_."

Brain short-circuits, closes in on itself like when I was in primary school. Shut down extremities. Close my eyes until the weight disappears, the door shuts, and I am alone once more. I am alone in a way I haven't been since John told me he was being deployed again (Mycroft fixed his invalidation). That was a dreadful day, when he packed his things into one duffel and looked at me expectantly, told me not to make a mess of things, and that he'd back by Christmas at the latest. And I heard the cab honk on the street, and I suddenly shot up and clung to his waist, asking him not to go. And he pried off my arms after prying his off me, and kissed my head (platonically).

And so John left, and I was alone.

And then Elizabeth left, and I was alone.

And then Ms. Adler left, and I was alone, but in a different sense. Her absence was a relief, because it was better to _be_ alone than to be in the company of someone who made you _feel_ alone.

I was always alone in the end, which was why the shift would eventually succumb to my commands. I was not allowed to have supernovas. I am a black hole. We destroy supernovas.

* * *

The crime scene is not dull, but it is. Lestrade asks where Elizabeth is, and I ignore him, holding up the police tape and letting myself through. The downstairs is familiar (I was just here), and after one quick sweep, everything is normal. Why they're all congregating down here and searching is moronic.

"Oi, Freak,"

Hear Sally Donovan, ignore her, start upstairs.

"This is Lizzy's parents'. Her dad's laying on a metal slab." she continues, grabbing my arm as I reach the second step.

"Sound analysis, Donovan." I retort through clenched teeth and twisting my arm out of her grip. "And I'm fixing it." I turn to look at everyone, and growl, "All of you. Out." before taking the steps two at a time, and hearing Lestrade bark for everyone to do as I said.

* * *

It's the bedroom where everything happened. No forced entry; minimal blood, which is surprising. Everything is _too_clean, too neat and normal. Her mother isn't a suspect, because she wouldn't be this thorough.

Go through the steps: window entry (break in the dust around the sill), covered footprints in the carpet (the fibers are erratic in some places, hinting that they've been scrubbed that way) that lead to the bed and nothing more. A bit of blood on the pillow closest to the window; sheets are twisted, suggesting a bit of a (short-lived) struggle. Position of the blood points to jugular wound.

Analysis: someone came in through the window, stabbed Mr. Aplin in the neck, but managed to capture most of the blood to keep it from soaking too far and waking Mrs. Aplin. But where did the blood go? Law of conservation of mass is very clear, the blood should be somewhere. And given my conversation with Ms. Adler, it should be somewhere in this room. This was not a random murder, it was a murder meant to send a message. A message to me.

"Bedside table,"

Mycroft. He sounds remorseful. Why is _he_ remorseful? Unless... he knew. No. No, Mycroft is terrible, he is two parts human and ninety-eight parts a false superiority complex, he is dreadful, but he wouldn't do this. He used to read me bedtime stories when Mummy and Father would fight, he used to carry me to my room when I would fall asleep in the music room, he would call me from Uni to make sure I was okay. Of course, he let a bit of power and his massive head get to him. But still.

I open it up to find an envelope sealed with the wax I had given Mr. Aplin last night. Beside it is the fountain pen (stab weapon), and a small vial of blood. It doesn't take two neurons to figure out whose. "Do come with me, Sherlock. We have things to discuss."

* * *

The car smells like leather and money. It's dull. It's terrible.

"There was a... miscalculation," he says, knitting his fingers together.

"In what?"

"I'm sure Ms. Adler already discussed the dirty details with you - "

"So why do I have the feeling what you're about to tell me is filthy?"

He stares at me, his eyes sorrowful, his mouth in a tight line. That is the one thing about Mycroft: he still has a shred of humanity left in him that just drains him of everything he's worth from time to time. "After the discovery of Ms. Adler's... plans, I tracked down Moriarty. He's in a holding cell, and refuses to talk to anyone. Except you."

But he is _too_ hesitant, too deliberate. There's something else that he's not willing to share, not at the moment, but it's still there, clear as day. "And you. To hear you talk about me." I reply slowly, trying to formulate where this is going. Moriarty said he would kill me, but drag it out. First, he wanted to burn the heart out of me.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." he sighs. I know what he's really saying, and he is silent for the remainder of the car ride. However, I decide to open the note. In elegant cursive, it simply says: _Shall I tell you a story?_ in red ink that's fading to a sickly brown. Blood. The murderer stabbed Mr. Aplin in the jugular with his pen and then wrote a message in his own blood. As I thought, this murder was to send a message.

Moriarty is connected to the first case I had with Elizabeth, and now this one. This is about _her_ specifically, what he's trying to give me a message about. A snarl rises in my throat, but I push it down.

* * *

Moriarty's holding 'cell' isn't much of a cell. It's just a concrete room with barely enough room to breathe due to the stench of urine, and somehow they crammed a table in there. He's handcuffed to the table, his ankles are cuffed to his chair. His hair is greasy from weeks without bathing, his skin is pale and damp, littered with various bruises from beatings, fruitless efforts to get him to speak. But his eyes light up when I walk in and sit across from him, staring, acting vague, disinterested, and bored. I have to, because otherwise unspeakable things will happen.

"I was wondering when you'd show," he says after a moment. His bottom lip splits open, and his tongue darts out to lick the blood away. "I was beginning to worry that the whore hadn't done her job correctly."

Exhale loudly, roll eyes. "She hasn't."

"Yet here you are." he quips without missing a single beat. "Admit it... you've missed me. We've both been a bit bored."

Don't respond, just stare at him. James Moriarty is not a good man, he is a spider. And like all men that are not good, he will drag this out, eventually giving up all of the details, because he wants me to know. He wants to see me in fear, he wants to be powerful for just a moment more. If he was a good man (and maybe in some other world he was), he would be lethal. A good man will kill you without hardly a word.

"You wouldn't be caught unless you wanted to be caught. So why now?" I ask.

He grins tiredly, and then sets his face in a solid expression. "Nothing better to do."

And I believe him, because he's honest in this aspect. He is a dangerous man who decided to be caught and tortured for weeks because there was nothing else that suited him at the moment. "You've been doing things though. Have you solved my riddle yet? The branch one?" he inquires. When I say nothing, he tsk's. "Oh, Sherlock," he moans sadly. "You're disappointing me."

"I don't like riddles."

"Told you to learn to." he hisses angrily, mouth curling in disdain. "And if you don't... well."

"Well?"

"Well I can worm my way into every aspect of your life, making sure that it collapses from the inside out." he warned with a small smile. His thin frame heaved under each breath, his neck seemed to loll from side to side during the silence, as if the muscles were weak and worn out. But it didn't matter how _physically_ weak he was; he would never talk if he didn't want to. Mentally, he was still as sharp as a tack. And that was something to be frightened of.

So, naturally, I relished in it.

"You seem so certain of yourself..." I sigh, breaking the gaze and looking at the walls where he scratched my name into the paint. Usually, he didn't like getting his hands dirty, but I guess he made an exception for my name.

He snorts, lets out an ungraceful laugh as his head lolls around and then snaps into complete steadiness as he burns his eyes into me. "I wormed my way into the RAMC, had your little blogger shot where he stood, shot your new little pet, and then sewed her up. I had her father killed, had the whore try - she really didn't do a good job - to figure you out. But I _still _know your pressure points, I know your mind, I know your life. Don't act like you're so untouchable, Sherlock Holmes, because I can't wait to get my hands on you." his voice is pure venom, pure hatred, pure _boredom_.

My mind kept listening, somehow, but when I heard him speak of John and Elizabeth in such casual terms, my hand shot out and made contact with his clammy, scratchy cheek. The sound echoed until only our breaths were left, and his eyes were bright again. "In a room of locked doors, the man with the key is king. And honey, you should see me in a crown."

He's giving me another riddle, so another crime will take place. He's warning me, he's telling me now to get out. So, naturally, I dig my toes in.

"You becoming king is a giant leap," I snap back sarcastically. "And one I'm not willing to take."

His lips break and his teeth flash in a crooked smile that's much too professional for the setting. He looks possessed, looks insane. "Who knows. You may change your mind." the edge in his smile disappears, and he returns to himself. "But, darling, really, you haven't answered my letters. Shall I tell you a story?" he asks sweetly.

"What kind of story?"

"A grim one."

"Mmm... _no_, sorry." He's speaking in riddles again; they're subtle, but they're still riddles. This is all just precursor to something bigger, something that's still in the works. That's why he isn't more upset with Adler, with me. Don't have a lot of time to solve this one, but I still have time. A few months if I'm lucky.

Moriarty just stares at me, his eyes calculating and cool. He's two steps ahead, and he knows it. He loves it, lives for it. I'm his fire, he's my chaos; a sick romance that I'm not interested in having, but here I am. "Have a good day, Sherlock Holmes." he purrs as the door opens and a (moron) man in a black suit escorts me out of the foul-smelling room.

* * *

The flat is quiet and empty, just as it was when I left. Didn't realize how much soothing cacophony Elizabeth conjures with her daily activities. I discuss the case with the version of her I keep in my mind palace, and then halfway through bring John into it. His face is familiar and calming, and something in my stomach unclenches. I miss him. I've tried deleting his death, but he's in too much of my mind palace that I can't delete him without deleting valuable bits of information. He wouldn't want me to miss him, but _oh_ sometimes I do so much that _nothing_ can possibly be correct in this world.

"Sherlock," he says, sitting across from me in his chair. I had put Elizabeth back minutes before. "I see you've managed to keep from destroying the flat."

"You wouldn't like it if I had. Elizabeth doesn't allow it, either." I reply. John laughs, and I want to bottle it and keep it forever, so I can hear it again and again. It makes the air feel a bit less like lead, makes the sensations hurt a little less. John is good. Elizabeth is good. I'm a bit _not_ good.

"No, no she doesn't. Did I get it right?"

"Get what right?"

"My replacement."

"She hasn't replaced you. She's..."

"Different." he smiles, and it's a knowing smile. "It's okay, you know. That you feel differently about her."

"It's irrational and distracting. I don't like it." I retort miserably, throwing my arm across my face as I flop down on the sofa, subconsciously leaving an Elizabeth-sized space near my head. John laughs again, and then sits in the empty spot, cradles my head in his lap, and cards his non-existant fingers through my hair until I fall asleep.

The next morning I go to the morgue, see Molly, look at Mr. Aplin. My deductions were correct, and I text Lestrade the details. He says Mycroft's been in touch with additional information, but I delete the message before I can finish reading it. Don't care. Spend the next two days all but living at morgue, experimenting with the cadavers Molly had set aside. She doesn't say much, which is odd, but it's good, because I can just work.

Forty-eight uninterrupted hours of work cleanses me, cleanses my mind, but only to a point. I keep catching myself starting texts to Elizabeth; mundane, dull things, such as asking her to pick up milk (we still have half of a gallon) on her way home from work (if she's even working, which is doubtful), or how long it takes saliva to coagulate. I always delete these, though, because she won't reply. She does not want to hear from me, because I am a black hole.

Yet I desperately, deeply, want to hear from her. Moriarty has something planned, and every moment she's away, the more likely he is to do something to her, and I can do nothing to stop it. For some reason, that's a scary thought, and one I don't like to have often. I cave and ask Mycroft to keep an eye on her, just in case. He doesn't seem surprised, but does not ask for anything in return, which is worrying in itself.

I spend New Year's Eve in my pajamas, playing my violin all day as I ponder my conversation with Moriarty, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's requests to keep it down. Finally, she comes into the flat, and patiently waits until I've finished whatever piece I'm playing (Bach). "You know, you could just call her. Whenever I had domestics with my husband, a few days apart helped, but eventually we just called and talked it out." she says.

"We're not domestic." I reply. If it were anyone else, I would snap, but because it is her, I am gentle. She is gentle with me, I am gentle with her. Mrs. Hudson had always been an exception in a peculiar way, but one that I couldn't imagine without. "Besides, you had me sentence your husband to death."

"We didn't talk that one out, deary." she giggles, and I smile briefly. "Well if nothing else, do it for me, because _I_ miss her." she adds before rubbing my back soothingly. "Happy New Year, Sherlock." she pats back down the stairs, and I pull out my mobile and stare at it. It couldn't hurt to text her happy New Year. She would probably delete it.

The clock rings midnight, and I cave. **Happy New Year. - SH**

After a few minutes of no reply, I'm anxious, mind wandering. Mycroft could have _miscalculated_ again, Moriarty could have gotten to her and -

**I haven't seen you since last year. - SH**

And she _still_ doesn't reply, and now I'm pacing nervously, hands in my hair. I don't wait to send another text.

**This is where you tell me not to be a smart arse. - SH**

I'm sending her these things because I know she will laugh at them if she's reading them, maybe she will reply. Try to rationalize the situation; she could be asleep, could be out with someone (strange feeling rises at that), or could just be ignoring me. But in the corners of my mind, I see Moriarty, I see him lurking in the shadows and waiting to snatch her away, to snuff out the candlelight in her chest. He is a black hole just like me, but he wants to extinguish my supernova, wants to destroy everything in the universe until it's just us, and one of us destroys the other... I can't see her, I can't keep an eye on her, and I don't trust Mycroft at the moment. I feel the shift panicking with me, worrying.

So I tell her the one thing I never meant to tell her, because she would never think of it the same way I thought of it. She would never think of me as home, of me as someone trying to rectify mistakes. To her, I am a madman with nicotine patches, but for some reason that is enough, because at least it is something. She is my soldier, I am her chaos; we're frighteningly codependent, but in a way that's not unhealthy. **Come home. - SH**

My phone lights up, and my body relaxes when I see she's replied. **Coffee tomorrow. Noon.**

* * *

**Just kidding. I wrote this and it became 5k+ words of what. Tried to get a lot of foreshadowing in, but don't know if it worked. Ugh this is stressful now because I know you guys like it. I JUST WANT TO PLEASE YOU GUYS OKAY. Oh, the paragraph with "James Moriarty is not a good man..." is derived from a quote by Terry Pratchett, who is brilliant, and is given credit.**


	21. Chapter 21

**Coffee and apologies and some fluff. Give you a bit of a break from angst.**

* * *

Soft lips were on my forehead. "Lizzy," my mother's soft voice in my ear. Groan and twist my face, pressing it into the pillow. Smells faintly of my shampoo and scratchy pillow fabric. "Lizzy, Sherlock's here."

"I don't have to meet him until noon..."

"It's one in the afternoon." she replied, hand caressing my hair. She always did this, even when I was a kid, because waking up was arguably the hardest thing for me to do. It took a moment, but once her words sunk in, I sat up and looked around, eyes settling on Sherlock's familiar frame perched awkwardly on the recliner across from me. Even though there were still plenty of things that needed to be said, plenty of things that would go unsaid, and plenty of things that had already been said, the sight of Sherlock was pleasing on a habitual level. It was a small kick of dopamine; familiarity breeds attraction, and Sherlock was familiar. Seeing him was a lot like coming home - mostly because I lived with him, so my psyche equated him with the flat.

My mother exchanged a glance between the two of us, patted my hair again, and then left us alone. I stretched, feeling my muscles loosen up, my joints popping. "Morning," I said, voice still thick with sleep. I was expecting a huff or an eye roll as a response, but instead, Sherlock simply quipped, "Afternoon."

"Sorry I overslept - "

"Ah, it's fine. Were you busy last ni - "

"Uh, no. Were yo - "

"No."

"Oh. That's..."

"Good."

"Yeah, good." I nodded quickly, clearing my throat to fill the awkward void that seemed to expand between us. "So... how did you find out my uncle's address?" I asked casually, still not breaking my stare with him. His black mood was still present, but he was at least trying to control it, even though it was probably physically painful at this point. It was doubtful that he had eaten or slept since my departure, even though my absence wasn't the cause of his unhealthy habits; getting him back on a schedule was going to be interesting.

"Your mother, actually. I was a bit worried when you didn't show, so I swiped her mobile number from the case file, and..." he waved his hand in the empty air, signaling that I knew the rest, and I did. Hearing him say 'case file' reiterated the painful twist of fresh hurt and unmatched gratitude, and I resisted the urge to throw my arms around him in a hug while simultaneously beating him senseless, which was incredibly frustrating. I thought I understood Sherlock by now. I lived with him, I saw him more than I saw any other person in terms of the sheer volume that I saw him (hours and hours and hours), I knew (several of) his quirks, his habits, his rituals, I could read his micro-expressions for the most part. But he was always finding _one_ thing that disputed the rest of my findings, _one_ character twist, _one_ new layer exposed... I thought I understood Sherlock, but I didn't.

So all I said was, "I didn't mean to worry you."

"Well, I say _worry_, but..." his voice trailed off, but it didn't match the hardness in his eyes, some smoldering _thing_ that was just out of reach. He didn't want to finish his sentence, maybe because there wasn't an end to it. He didn't want to look weak, appear emotional, act human, because there was a possibility that a tiny bit of Sherlock _had_ genuinely worried about me, and he didn't know how to process that.

"I know." I replied, forcing a smile. "Did you still want to get coffee?"

* * *

Sherlock found a table while I ordered (it was easy, especially when I had his coffee memorized), and I snuck a glance at him while I was waiting by the counter. He was staring out the window, absently watching London tick at a continuous rate. He loved London; it was one of the few things in this world that I would dare say Sherlock Holmes _loved_ - his work was the first, the city was second, music was maybe a third, and the list ended there. But yes, Sherlock loved the city for some Sherlockian reason that I would never fully understand. Maybe it was the fact that it was consistent, or that there was always something going on that he would never get bored. Reasons aside, Sherlock had an unconscious habit of looking at the things he loved with such tenderness... it was an expression that opened up his entire being, giving you a momentary gateway into the heart of a seemingly heartless man, and making him appear ageless.

"Black coffee with two sugars, carmel macchiato."

I turned around, grabbed the warm cups, and wove my way through the maze of chairs and tables to the place Sherlock was sitting. He took the styrofoam cup and nodded as a form of thanks, and I nodded back as I took the seat across from him. He took a drink, but if he scalded his tongue, he didn't show it, and returned to staring out the window until I decided that we _needed_ to talk about some things.

"Sherlock," I began, hoping that we could be rational human beings since we were in public. If we were back at the flat, there was always the chance that we'd end up yelling and slamming doors, because we were both unable to process excessive emotions in a healthy way. The truth was that Sherlock and I could probably use some couples counseling even though we weren't a couple; however, I'm not really sure how a counselor would deal with two people in couples counseling that weren't actually a couple, but needed it to improve their communication around the flat.

But when he turned to me, for a moment his expression was so _soft_ for half a second that it made up for the hardness that I was accustomed to replaced it, so I let harsh words marinate into kinder ones. "You were not the sole reason that I left a few days ago. You were a giant chunk of it, but I probably would've left to be with my family anyway."

He opened his mouth, but I held up a hand and he shut it again. "However, what your behavior did hurt my feelings." I paused for a sip of my macchiato, and then let out a sigh to signal I was done, because there really wasn't much else to say that he didn't know. And for a long time, Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't look at me, or out the window, or around the shop to deduce the general population; I don't know what I was expecting to happen, but I was hoping some form of an apology would fall out of his mouth at _some _point.

"Your mother told me that the funeral is the day after tomorrow," is what he says after the several minutes of unbearable silence. The lump in my chest gave a gratified twinge, and I felt the disappointment sink in. I knew it was too much to hope for an apology, but I had done it anyway. Disappointment was a special kind of sadness, and one that was not often matched; it was almost a form of punishment for holding too much faith in a false idol.

"Yeah. I have to go to work before, though."

"The flat is closer to the clinic," he added, clearing his throat. He was being uncharacteristically conscious of himself despite the black mood, which was interesting. I knew what he was getting at, but I didn't say anything. I wanted to go home, but I also had responsibilities to take care of. My family was important... but wasn't Sherlock sort of like family as well? Family didn't end with blood.

"I'll think about it. Are we finished here, then?" I asked gently, not trying to appear like I was irritated with him. Today he seemed oddly fragile, and I wasn't sure if it was because of the black mood he was battling, or if there was something bigger going on in that insanely brilliant head of his. Above all else, I wanted Sherlock to let me in, because I let him in. I wanted to know Sherlock Holmes as well as he knew me.

He nodded, I rose from my spot awkwardly, and so did he. We stared at each other for a few seconds, and I could tell he wanted to say something, but he didn't know how, so I said something for him. "Did you... want to do something?"

"Park sounds nice."

* * *

It's London, so of course it was cold and overcast, and practically the exact opposite of what most people would find 'nice' for a day in the park. But this was Sherlock, the madman with nicotine patches, so I didn't question it. There were the main attractions for Winter Wonderland, the carnival sort of thing that was set up every winter, towards the center, but we quickly moved away from the crowds and wandered quietly along the outskirts, staring at the wide patches of green that were preserved amongst the concrete of the city. The grass was green at least, surprisingly so for the time of year, which made the bark on the trees deeper in hue until they were nearly black. Contrasting with the sky, it looked oddly beautiful and peaceful, like a personal Garden of Eden in the middle of Purgatory.

My similes need some work.

Finally we settled on a dry patch of grass, not saying anything, and just listening to the sounds of nature mix with the sounds of London. It wasn't awkward with Sherlock anymore, but it wasn't pleasant either; it was like nothing had been resolved, and we were both trying not to say things that needed to be said. To my surprise, Sherlock sprawled out on his back and said, "I was insensitive to your emotional state. I am sorry." in casual passing, but it came out a bit too quickly. I just ruffled his curls, and waited an hour until we walked back to the city and took a cab back to Uncle Hugh's.

When the cab pulled up, I saw Emily's car on the curb, and smiled a bit. I really enjoyed spending time with Alice; she was a baby, and babies were cute. I swear, it's an instinctive sort of thing, liking children and being fiercely protective. Once Sherlock got out, he looked at me expectantly, and before I could stop myself, I shot out, "Like hell I'm paying for this one, Sherlock." and he smirked, paid, and then awkwardly stood in front of me.

"You can come in, if you want. My cousin's here, though."

"I have a culture in the fridge I need to check up on - "

"Dear god, I'm gone for three or four days and you put stuff in the fridge that - "

"I'm using the marked tupperware! You have such little faith in me!"

"Coming from the man who had pig intestines on the table the first night we met!"

"It was important for the case!"

"It couldn't have been _that_ important, Sherlock," I was beaming at him, and he was actually beaming at me, and the entire situation was just a weird, confusing mess. We were fighting but smiling about it, probably because it was the most normal thing that had happened all day, and it was just refreshing. It felt like the universe had fallen back into place. "Besides, what did you even test the thing on?"

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know." he smirked again, and to anyone else, it would've sounded like the most fucked up form of flirting the world had ever seen. But it was Sherlock being Sherlock, and if it wasn't for his smirk I would've taken him seriously. So I laughed for the first time in days, and he just stared at me, confused, which added to my hysterical giggles until they died down.

"Really, Sherlock, stay for a few minutes. I want you to stay."

His mouth flattened into a straight line, his brows furrowed in surprise. "Why?"

"Because it's gloomy in there, and I've been gloomy for days, and you have a wonderful habit of giving me cultures in my fridge to think about instead. Plus, Mum likes you. That was the first time I haven't seen her fall to pieces in a while, and that's a good thing." I rambled, knotting my fingers together as the cold wind bit at them. But my ramblings were true; I don't think Sherlock actually realized that Donovan and Anderson's interpretations of him weren't realistic, that everyone he encountered would hate him or be mean and spiteful. It was sort of heartbreaking to think that he had never been around people that actually _tried_ to get past his harsh angles and coat and personality. I think, at the root of it all, Sherlock was actually a very sensitive man (anyone that was so egocentric had to be) that buried his sensitivity deep so it couldn't be touched or prodded - I think he had done that a long time ago.

"As you wish," he replied hesitantly, and I nodded and put my hand on the door.

"Sherlock, one more thing? Keep the deductions to a minimal, yeah? Things are still kind of heavy." I added. My hand twisted the knob, and I opened the door to feel a gush of warm air kiss my face and drive the cold away. Emily was on the sofa with Alice, bouncing her on her knee tiredly. I could faintly hear wailing coming from the kitchen. Sherlock sucked in a breath as he came in behind me, softly closing the door.

"Sorry, Liz. Dad called, said he needed some help. Auntie kind of _really_ lost it." Emily explained, her eyes exhausted but her voice animated as Alice gurgled happily on her lap. "He's been trying to calm her down for the past fifteen minutes. I tried for the past hour. She just sort of shut down in the kitchen, couldn't move from her spot in front of the fridge, and then Dad went in there after I gave up and she's been crying ever since." she paused and eyed Sherlock. "And who are you?"

"It's fine, Em." I retorted, unbuttoning my coat and unwinding my scarf. "I'll sort it out. This is my friend slash flatmate slash makeshift boss, Sherlock. Sherlock, this is my cousin, Emily, and that's her daughter, Alice." the introductions were brief and to the point, because they had to be. I could hear Uncle Hugh trying to say soothing words, but they were always short-lived.

I dashed to the kitchen and found Uncle Hugh looking at me hopelessly - he was just as sad as my mother was, but he was trying to be strong. I was trying to be strong so they didn't have to be. We were a family of stubborn people. "Hey, I got this," I mouthed as he pursed his lips and retreated to the living area. My mother sniffled and blinked, surprised that I was there, before she croaked, "You're supposed to be out."

"Yeah, and then I came back."

"Sherlock." she added neutrally, nodding behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see Sherlock had followed me into the kitchen, and shut the door behind him. "Mrs. Aplin," he replied just as flatly. Before I could tell him that we needed a moment alone, he seated himself in the spot Uncle Hugh had been in earlier, and gently took my mother's hand in his own, and held it for a while. She was still crying, but it was silent; the kind where tears are still running down your face but you're just blotting them away with tissues. And I found a seat in the corner, still close to my mother in case things went awry, but still far enough away that I didn't feel like I was infringing on an incredibly intimate moment that had blossomed in front of me.

"I just... how do you even breathe?" she asked no one in particular. Her voice was shaky, her shoulders were slumped so far forward that I was expecting them to collapse in on themselves. "It's like the better half of you has just disappeared, like the dominant hand cut itself off and somehow you have to write a novel... I just... the person who knew you physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually; the person who knew you better than you knew yourself is just gone, just like that, and they took all of the oxygen out of the world." she took another shattered breath before exhaling, "Oh my god, how do you even breathe?"

And at that, my eyes stung and a rock appeared in my throat, because while each of us had lost something (a father, a brother, an uncle), my mother had lost her husband, and while each of us had lost something different from the others, I think that was a different kind of loss all together, and one I couldn't fathom.

"Oh, I don't think he's gone." Sherlock sighs after my mother temporarily evens out her breathing. My spine stiffens and I tense, getting ready to move and to drag him out of there, because _now is not the time for him to be an insensitive prick -_ "According to the law of conservation of mass and energy, he's actually not."

_What?_

"You see, all of the matter that is in the universe cannot be created, nor can it be destroyed. There's a delicate balance that must be maintained, therefore everything that was will always exist. Matter cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed. So your husband is still very much _here_, Mrs. Aplin, even if he is not in the _form_ you recognize. According to Physics, he is not gone; he is here, and he always will be." he continued, paying conscious attention to my mother's expressions, her eyes, her hands. "Besides," he added. "Half of his genetic code is still preserved." he finished with a glance at me. "So you keep breathing, Mrs. Aplin, you just do."

Sherlock rose, squeezed my mother's hand, and then knelt in and kissed her cheek softly before excusing himself to the living area with Emily and Uncle Hugh, leaving us alone. And I inched towards my mother, who was no longer crying but still sniffling, and who also looked a several kilos lighter, as if a giant weight had been expelled for the time being.

"That boy," she sighed, shaking her head. "That boy." she repeated fondly, capturing my hand and squeezing it rhythmically. We sat in silence for several minutes until my mother decided to make some tea, and I wandered out into the living area to find Emily feeding Alice, Uncle Hugh reading the paper, and Sherlock awkwardly standing in the corner, unsure of what to do with himself. I caught his attention and motioned for him to follow me upstairs so I could talk to him privately for a moment. His footsteps were so quiet that I had to check to see if he was following me a few times, but finally we made it to the hallway between the two bedrooms in the house.

"Yes?" he inquired, eyes darting around the space and gathering information for his brain to process. I didn't know what I wanted to say, and if I did, I didn't know how to say it, because there was just a lot. Watching him interact with my mother that way made my chest ache, and it made my eyes burn. So before he could ask any more questions or try to deduce something about the amount of times the carpet had been cleaned, I wound my arms under his Belstaff and around his chest, and rested my face in the dip of his shoulder as my arms tightened their grip until it was considered an awkward, one sided hug.

Sherlock didn't respond for a few seconds, but I didn't care, and just hugged him tighter, breathing in the familiar scent of our laundry detergent and fabric softener and skin, an underlying scent that everyone had that satisfied the primal aspects of my brain. What people didn't realize was that Sherlock was actually quite _warm_, despite what their brains would try to tell them. He was harsh angles and dark coats and sharp words, everything about him screamed 'DO NOT TOUCH,' and his skin was so white that you couldn't help but assume he would be ice. But in fact, Sherlock was warm, and his angles were softer in the early morning or late evening, and his dark coat was actually a wonderful fortress against the elements, and his skin was sometimes bruised and battered from all of the abuse it was put through. And this only made me hug him tighter still until my arms were sore, but that was okay, because his arms hesitantly wound around me as well and gave gentle, awkward pats on my back, which made me snigger into his shoulder.

"You are so awkward," I said, but it was muffled by the fabric. I felt him laugh, and then I pulled away. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"For taking the case. For comforting my mother. For using the marked tupperware with the mystery cultures in the fridge."

He smiled, and it made me blush slightly, because we weren't the hugging type, and somehow that made everything feel just a little bit too personal at the moment, like we were overstepping several unspoken boundaries. "Does this mean I can keep them?" he asked.

"Absolutely not," I snapped seriously. "I'm honestly surprised neither of us haven't contracted something lethal."

"I should get back..." he replied with a clear of his throat. I led him back downstairs and we had almost made it to the door before he stopped in his tracks, looking quite distressed. "You okay?" I asked. He pointed down, and I followed his direction to find Alice crawling in front of Sherlock, gurgling happily at him. She was so small that it was easy to mistake her as a newborn (which I had originally thought) instead of a five month old. Crawling at this age was a bit premature, but I didn't find it anything serious.

"It won't move."

"She's a _baby_, Sherlock, not an _it_." I replied amusedly. I heard Uncle Hugh put down his paper and Emily chuckle, and two pink splotches appeared on Sherlock's cheeks. When Alice grasped the leg of his trousers with her tiny fingers and pulled herself up to glom onto his leg, his eyes widened in what appeared to be fear and he looked at me as if I was torturing him, but that was a very real possibility at the moment. So I laughed lightly and scooped her up in my arms, and she just cooed happily again and twined her fingers in my hair and pulled lightly. "Come on, you big git." I said, starting towards the door again. Sherlock followed me out and I bundled Alice tighter to me to keep her warm.

Sherlock eyed Alice as he magically waved a cab down on the first try (I'm convinced he has them all paid off) and then experimentally poked her chubby cheek, and she _beamed_ at him, snatching his finger in her hand before he could pull it away. "Ah..." he exclaimed distastefully. "She won't let go."

"Because she likes you." I explained, taking pity and prying her fingers off of him. He retracted his hand in a flash as if someone had burned him, and I laughed again. "You, who has gotten into fights with police and hardened criminals, get jittery over a baby."

He gave a noncommittal noise as he opened the back seat to the cab and slid in. I watched the cab until it drove out of sight, and then rejoined my family.

* * *

**Actually, this isn't coffee and apologies and fluff. It's a hostage situation of sentences that have been forced together.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Oh. Well. Responses (reviews and PMs) to the last chapter were kind of everywhere. I haven't been this nervous/hesitant about a chapter since the first seven of this one, even though they're all drafts. I... um... yeah? So I'm going to pull back a bit.**

* * *

I thought I was prepared for my father's funeral, but I wasn't. In truth, nothing can prepare you for the feeling of burying someone you love in the ground, and I have no idea why I thought I could handle this. I don't remember what the pastor said, what I was wearing, or even my mother squeezing my hands so tight that they were white; everything sort of felt slow and heavy, like a thin veil had shimmied between reality and myself. I could extend a hand and try to dip my skin in, but the veil always wove around my fingertips and the empty spaces in between, keeping me _just_ far enough away that I was suspended in a pocket dimension just a breath away.

There was a deep knot in my throat, just above the frog's pond of my collar bone (just above my scar), that made speech impossible, and a rigidity had captured my muscles and tendons, keeping me as still as humanly possible. So I just let my mother _squeeze_ my hands, and I let her cry softly into my shoulder, and I calmly marched with the pall-bearers, eyes straight ahead, unyielding. And I let myself be guided to the seat underneath the tent, and placed my hands in my lap so my mother could hold them again, pushed my hair over my (right) shoulder so she could cry into the left, and stared at the patch of blue sky just above the pastor's head as he spoke.

_That_ was one thing that managed to slip past the veil: it was unusually sunny for winter in London, and I absolutely loathed it today. It was supposed to be rainy and downright _dreadful_ today, so that if _I_ couldn't be happy, no one else could as well. But the misplaced, self-righteous voice in my head didn't chastise me for the selfish feeling - humans are incredibly selfish. Humans are incredibly selfish, harmful, hateful beings, but they are also the most kind, loving, and understanding of all beings as well. For instance, Sarah didn't question me at all during the morning shift, she just kept things as usual. She didn't even try to ask me about how I was feeling, she just kept things running as usual. Sarah was a lovely individual. Daniel, on the other hand, was selfish; cheating on your wife is not something I consider a selfless act. But sometimes we were selfish because it was easier that way, it was a false-sense of preservation. And sometimes we were incredible because we realized we were all bags of meat stuck on a rock that danced around a star.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep..." the pastor's voice floated into my ears, and Sherlock's immediately came to mind. He told my mother those wonderful things, that my father wasn't actually gone, that he could never be, because that violates science. It was such a Sherlockian answer, but one that was so philosophical that it nearly seemed poetic. "You can have faith in faith," he was trying to say. "But there's comfort in tangibility."

Suddenly, people were standing, and my mother was tugging gently at my elbow for me to follow suit. I did so, eyes never abandoning that blue patch of hope, and then we were walking, taking flowers from the top of the casket, and splitting into small groups all trying to make nervous chatter. Most were discussing the weather, saying it was a blessing from God, or some proof that my father was looking down at us. A few were making light-hearted jokes, saying they couldn't wait for the food at the memorial service. My mother, surprisingly, was one of those people. She seemed to have taken on a deep sense of peace after Sherlock's talk with her, but whether or not the madman with nicotine patches was the cause of this behavior, I don't know. Yes, she still wept, but it was not nearly as hysterical, and the fits were coming less and less, and lasting for shorter periods of time.

"I hate funerals," a voice said behind me. "They're positively dull."

And, at that, I rolled my eyes and whipped around to reveal Sherlock Holmes standing behind me, calculating everything his eyes took in. "Crashing a party is acceptable. Crashing a wedding is cool if you do it right. But crashing a funeral is really inappropriate." I feel my lips moving, but it all feels wrong, like I shouldn't actually be saying those things.

"Not crashing. Came to kidnap you."

"Case?" Admittedly, I _do_ sound a little hopeful, but I'd rather be on a case than here, or at the memorial service. This was a suffocating paralytic.

"If that'll get you out of here, then yes." his lips tugged at the corners, and I felt so relieved I could fly. I wasn't going to have to be dealing with any more dead bodies today, I wasn't going to have to be Sherlock's translator to the rest of the world. I wanted to be alone for a while, somewhere I could just exist without having to deal with the consequences of said existence.

"Sherlock?" my mother's voice came from a few meters away, and relief quickly morphed into anxiety. There was no way I was going to get out of this, I was the daughter here, I was part of the immediate family that everyone was insistent on touching and speaking to (even though they quickly had given up on that around the start of the thing); it was incredibly selfish of me to even _consider_...

"Mrs. Aplin," he greeted back, stepping around me and meeting her halfway, kissing both of her cheeks. I watched as they exchanged a few soft, solemn words, and then my mother simply met my gaze and nodded. Sherlock kissed her again (he was incredibly affectionate with her and Mrs. Hudson), and then whirled back around and led me away from the dreaded crowd, towards the entrance of the cemetery, and to the black cab that was waiting there. I swear, I will never understand his magic with cabs.

I didn't ask him what he said to her, I didn't want to know. A majority of me felt guilty, yet I also felt relieved to be away from people. And I thought it was going to all be fine, except as the door shut behind Sherlock and the cabbie started off, the knot in my throat was lodged free, and a horrific sound spilled from my mouth. The cabbie flinched at it, and Sherlock had given me a harsh stare, but I couldn't stop it from happening again, except this time it came out as a scream.

Screaming was like a cleansing through fire, and as hard as I tried (including covering my mouth), it was still spilling out, and then the cabbie was asking Sherlock if he needed to pull over, and Sherlock was saying something, and then he was _there_, pressing my face into his chest, and gripping me tightly, still saying something that I couldn't understand (nonetheless hear). Eventually the muffled screaming died down and gave way to pathetic panting mixed with small whimpers, as if I hadn't been breathing for a lifetime and was finally exercising my lungs.

"I'm going to be really upset if you hyperventilate, Elizabeth." Sherlock said sternly somewhere above me, and I laughed a little, because Sherlock was always going to be Sherlock, no matter what was going on. He was a rock when everything else was a cloud... there really was comfort in tangibility.

"You're such a prick." I managed, experimentally twisting my fingers in his shirtfront. He went very, _very_ still at that, and I immediately knew that was the wrong thing to do, that _that_ was definitely crossing the line. I let go of his shirt, hoping that we could just drop it, and pretend it didn't happen.

"Says the person wrinkling an expensive shirt." he retorted, pulling away and sliding as far away from me as the cab would allow. Of course we couldn't just drop it.

* * *

We didn't talk about the funeral, or the cab, or anything that afternoon. In fact, Sherlock and I didn't actually see each other as soon as we entered 221B for a good eight hours; he went off to sulk in his bedroom, and I went to go cry over my father in mine, and that was that. It wasn't until my stomach growled that I even considered leaving my room, but when I did manage to slip down the stairs and into the kitchen without disturbing a certain consulting detective, I felt as if the night could possibly turn around in my favor.

And then, I opened the fridge to see a human head sitting on the shelf. As quickly as I had opened the fridge, I slammed it shut, cursing myself and deciding that it was _not_ going to be a night in my favor, and stomped to Sherlock's room. Without knocking, I opened the door to reveal him in his blue dressing gown and pajamas.

"There's a fucking head in the fucking fridge." I stated.

He blinked. "Good of you to notice."

"You said there were fucking 'cultures' and they were in the marked tupperware." I ground out.

He blinked again. "Mmm, there _were_, but those were disposed of yesterday."

"Sherlock Holmes, you have exactly fifteen seconds to explain and get rid of the goddamn _human head_ in our _refrigerator_." I barked, marching over and grabbing his ear, and then dragging him to the kitchen.

"I am _not_ getting rid of the head, because I am measure the coagulation of saliva after death." he hissed, swatting my wrist away in the hallway.

"Then go to the fucking lab and do that with Molly!"

"Why would I do that?!"

"Because she's practically your fucking girlfriend and would literally do anything you asked!" I shrieked back. "Besides, things like this are _supposed_ to happen at a lab instead of a _flat kitchen_ you idiot."

He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair, all but tearing it out in the process. "Jesus bloody Christ, why does any of that _matter_? I swear to god, you're _impossible_." he yelled in response. I scoffed and shifted my weight to one leg.

"_I_ am the impossible one?! _You have a fucking _head_ in the fridge_!"

"And guess whom it bothers? _You_. And only you."

"JUST GET THE HEAD OUT OF THE FRIDGE!"

* * *

To make a very long argument short, I removed the head from the fridge as Sherlock tried to remove mine from my shoulders, the jar of jam ended up in my hair and Sherlock's, and a chair lost one of its legs. So, to make that explanation short, a regular evening at 221B. After a shower and a change of clothes, we wound up in the living room (not trying to kill each other), with the telly on. But something was off, like a voice that should be here saying something about fight sex and -

"Ms. Adler," I said to no one in particular during a commercial. "Where is she?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't even acknowledge the question, and just left it to hang in the air. And that was fine, I suppose, because at the moment I didn't really want to know. My wardrobe hadn't been messed with, and there was no evidence that she had still been staying here, leading me to believe that she had left at some point.

However, all of that was put out of mind when Sherlock abruptly stretched out on the sofa, nudging his head into my lap in a silent request. I sighed and gave in, because I wasn't up for another fight tonight, and tangled my fingers in his damp curls, running my nails lightly over the scalp in some areas that I knew relaxed him. Twenty minutes later, he was limp and unconscious, face twisted into my thigh. I pulled the throw down from the back of the sofa and spread it over his frame, and then began trying to get up without waking him. However, as soon as I did so, he twisted his arms around my waist to show how he felt about the act.

To make a very long internal thought process short, that's how I ended up sleeping on the sofa.

* * *

**This is where I say fuck everything and go hide in a cave where none of you can find me.**


	23. Chapter 23

**"There are moments when, whatever the posture of the body, the soul is on its knees." - Victor Hugo, "Les Misérables"**

**"He is made of the world and all of its broken beauty, and by doubting himself, he is doubting the entire universe." - Unknown**

**Here is chapter 23.**

* * *

Something was running up and down my forearm lightly, just the length of my ulna from my elbow to my wrist, and nothing more than that. It tickles a bit, but not so much that it causes me to squirm or even react; it's more firm than a brush, but it's lighter than a purposeful touch, so classifying it is somewhere in between. Finally, I peeled my eyes open, squinting as they adjusted to the dusty sunlight that fell perfectly through the slit in the curtain (yes, the sun was millions of kilometers away, but it always had perfect aim) to see a long, pale index finger making the rhythmic path.

Sherlock.

He's still laying down, but he's rolled over onto his stomach and tucked the Union Jack pillow under his chin, and the throw has ended up on me. I flex my toes in my socks, and they pop to spite the stiffness, and I can already tell that I'm going to be sore from sleeping crookedly on the sofa - half upright, half lying down, since the sofa really wasn't big enough for two adults. He can't see my eyes yet, but I have no doubt that he knows I'm awake, probably saying that my breathing changed, or that my reaction time was faster.

But instead, he says, "You've got five freckles along your ulna."

And that's fine, it's all fine. I can smell his sour morning breath, and he can probably smell mine, and that's fine as well. There's a certain quiet intimacy about waking up with someone; there's an intimacy going to bed with someone, yes, but waking up with them is different. Because you wake up with crusty eyes, scratchy voices, bad breath, and slightly swollen features. No one wakes up beautiful, no matter how hard they try. So there's a quiet intimacy about waking up _with_ someone, because they see you, they really, _really_ see you. And though Sherlock can always really see me, I can rarely see him; waking up was our equalizer.

"Do I?" I replied, watching his finger carefully trace over each one.

"You know I don't like repeating myself," he tried to sound aloof, to sound bored or disinterested, or to sound like I was being dull, but it came out soft and affectionate, and his reaction was almost immediate. His finger disappeared from my skin, and then the sofa as he ungracefully started off to the bathroom, leaving me alone to hear myself breathing and retracing the path his finger had made with my own.

* * *

Much like the incident in the back of the cab, we don't talk about the morning on the sofa, either. But while Sherlock probably deleted the incidents, I couldn't. I would find myself remembering them during breaks at work, or whenever a mundane text asking me to pick up milk comes my way. Still, we don't talk about it. Instead we take cases, ones that bore Sherlock to tears, and ones that he finds a smidgen interesting, until we hit a long and terrible lull that sends him looking to the masses for mundane cases to keep his brain occupied.

That's how we ended up nearly getting killed (although near-death experiences have started losing their novelty) at a laboratory in search of a giant hound for a bloke named Henry. That case was especially grueling: we had to leave London, for starters, which is something Sherlock never did. And then there was the issue of stealing Mycroft's access card, Lestrade showed up halfway through, Sherlock had gassed me with a hallucinogen after being exposed to it a few nights prior and snapping at me, something about glow in the dark rabbits, and finally, the lot of us were nearly killed by the culprit.

Yes, it was safe to assume that everyone left Baskerville rather tense and on edge with each other, Sherlock and me especially. We had an impressive shouting match in the car ride back to London that resulted in us not seeing or speaking to each other for a solid week once we got back, which was even more impressive considering the size of the flat and the fact that both of us were still living there. Sherlock and I were arguably the worst communicators, and our relationship was quickly deteriorating as time progressed. There was _something_ that neither of us acknowledged, and it hung in the air until it suffocated our patience and made us bicker.

It wasn't until Sherlock had requested me to come to a crime scene after work that I understood what was the problem. I paid the cabbie, ignored Anderson's bad attitude and Donovan's pursed lips, and rounded the corner of the abandoned building where a body was found to see Sherlock hovering over it, his facial features twisted into their familiar, hard stare. Lestrade was beside him, lips moving to form words I couldn't hear, and I saw Sherlock turn his cold, indifferent stare to Lestrade, not replying. And then, as if he sensed me, his head snapped around to see me, and the cold, indifferent stare that was so familiar to the rest of the world was gone, replaced by something warmer that he had reserved just for me as his lips quirked into a subtle smile for just half of a second before the original stare was back.

It was _then_ that everything made sense, that the pieces fell together as the world condensed to the point of that quick, sweet smile that he had shown me, and I _understood_. Oh fucking hell.

* * *

Still, I didn't broach the subject or entertain the thought if I could help it. My realization had cut most of the bickering in down; while it was quieter in the flat, I felt louder than ever, like I was carrying around some burdened secret that would have me shot on sight if it ever escaped. I mean, you can't just look at your flatmate slash best friend slash makeshift-sorta-kinda boss and say, "You know what? I fancy the hell out of you. Let's snog in the kitchen while the kettle boils."

So I swallowed it all down, gave the lump in my chest something to munch on when it got bored or hungry, and continued about our daily life. Sherlock had told me when we first met that he wasn't interested, that he didn't do romantic relationships, and I had told him that was fine. And it _is_ fine, because that's his choice, and his choice deserved to be respected and accepted. So we went about our lives, and things were normal. Nothing changed.

Until we got a case to find a missing painting, "Falls of the Reichenbach," and that's when things really started to change. Sherlock solved the case in record time, and that should have been the end of things, but when the curator of the museum gave a very public thank you speech, Sherlock was being brought more cases than ever. And not just small ones, big ones from big names with lots of connections; he helped find a kidnapped ambassador, solved a few high-profile cases for the Yard, and before I knew it, Sherlock was a breath away from famous. Paparazzi were starting to snap our photographs, asking us if we were 'an item' and whatnot, trying to pry into our lives. Granted, it wasn't like we were followed _everywhere_, but it wasn't like we could just go out to Angelo's for a post-case dinner without attracting some attention, either.

But after a few weeks of no cases, they buggered off, leaving us to ourselves again. Of course, the general population was suddenly showing up at our doorstep, begging Sherlock to take cases about cheating spouses, missing jewels, and there was one about a haunted house that Sherlock actually slammed the door in the man's face, and I hit him upside the head with a magazine as I let the man back in and apologized thoroughly.

There was one night, though, that I came back from my shift at the clinic to find Sherlock facing the window, his back hard and rigid and all sorts of tense lines. It wasn't one of his black moods, it was something else, something I hadn't seen before. "What's wrong?" I asked quietly, shutting the door and not bothering to toe off my shoes or take off my scarf in case we had to leave. His back tensed even more under my voice, and I contemplated just ducking upstairs for the night, and leaving him to his work. But there was _something_ different here, something that suggested that Sherlock didn't need me to go upstairs, but needed me there, in the same room. Of course, I knew part of that was just wishful thinking.

"Come to the cemetery with me." he said suddenly, turning around and starting towards me.

"This late? Sherlock it's probably closed - "

He held up a ring of keys (probably from an undertaker who owed him a favor), gathered his scarf and Belstaff, and then started down the stairs without me. It only took me five seconds to make up my mind, slamming the door behind me and barely catching his wrist before he got into a cab.

"What is all of this about?"

"You should see your father while we're there. You haven't been in a month - "

"Sherlock." I ground out between clamped molars, signaling him that he was treading on thin ice.

* * *

He opened the lock with no troubles (he didn't even have to try different keys), and then branched off from me once we got the the third fork. My father's gravesite was just down the fifth fork on the right, so I couldn't figure out why he split from me so early. Despite my initial instinct to go after him, I decided to make use of my time here and visit my father. It was a bit creepy, standing in the chilly night, virtually alone in a cemetery. But after clearing off some dead flowers and just resting my hand on the top of his tombstone, I felt better, lighter.

Moving on from death is something that doesn't come overnight, even if you live with the world's only consulting detective and you have millions of distractions at your dispense. I still missed my father terribly, as a child should, but with time it was getting easier. I didn't feel the rock in my throat whenever I saw dads playing with their children, or whenever dads brought their kids in for a check up at the clinic. As time keeps going, you learn that everything in life is an act of letting go. A clenched fist can only ever have what's in it, but it can't let anything new in, or let anything old go. You have to try and keep an open hand with an open mind, so new things may come into your life, and old ones may depart.

Of course, that's always easier said than done.

After a ten minutes or so, I started back, struggling to hear the baritone voice I had grown accustomed to. It took a while, but I finally heard faint traces of it, and followed it quietly, trying not to disturb whatever it was he was doing. I wasn't sure if Sherlock had anyone here that he would want to visit, because he rarely spoke of his family or anyone that he had ever grown close to. Maybe he was meeting someone here? I wouldn't put it past him to choose a cemetery as a meeting place.

"... You remember that case, John..."

I froze in my tracks, thinking that I had somehow misheard, but deep down knowing I hadn't. I was still far enough away that Sherlock's dark silhouette was still bleeding into the dark trees that blocked out the city lights, but his voice was very, very clear despite it being so faint. I walked a few more meters until I knew that coming any further would disturb him, and then stopped, keeping as quiet and still as I possibly could. I didn't know John was buried here; I had never bothered to check or to ask around. I felt it wasn't my place to see him here, this way, especially when I still dreamt that I was the reason he was here in the first place.

"... And I told you not to make people into heroes because they didn't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." I heard Sherlock pause as he shifted. "I was... well, I was right and wrong on part of that, John. I am not a hero. Lord knows that I'm barely even human." he chuckled to himself, and my face burned. "But... I think, in retrospect, you were. And not just because you went to war and got shot. I... you saved people in Afghanistan because it was your job, but then you came to London and you saved _me_ out of choice, and... well, I suppose that says an awful lot about a person, doesn't it? I know if our positions were swapped, you would be telling me that _I_ saved _you_, but let's be realistic: I just distracted you from a psychosomatic limp. You just _saved_ me from myself in ways I will never understand. And then you went away and I couldn't ever return the favor and save you, but then you sent me Elizabeth, and so you _kept on saving me_. But, um, yes. Thank you."

My bottom lip was raw from where I had been unconsciously gnawing at it, my eyes were watery, and a rock had settled in my throat. I was trying to swallow all of these things away when he turned away from John's alleged grave and then turned back to it, saying, "And yes. You got it right." before really turning away this time, and starting towards the path. If he knew I was there, he chose to ignore it, but if he didn't, I didn't tell him. In tradition, we didn't talk about it, and just got in a cab that took us back to Baker Street.

* * *

We got a call from Lestrade the next morning, _demanding_ us at the Tower of London as soon as possible. Sherlock was unusually quiet about it, since his usual reaction to a 'good' case was beaming and singing, "_Finally_, a decent murder!" even if it wasn't a murder at all (in his defense, they usually were). He was scarily composed, looking out of the window the entire cab ride there, and ignoring texts that he received, even though they were probably from Lestrade.

"Everything okay?" I asked, but he didn't reply.

When we arrived, Lestrade whirled us into the security room where screens were set up, and he began playing through one. As soon as it started, my pulse skyrocketed. Brook/Jim, the same medic from Afghanistan and the IT guy from St. Bart's, was on camera, writing, "Get Sherlock" on the glass case of the crown jewels before smashing it open with a fire extinguisher, which should be impossible since the glass was bulletproof.

"He used a diamond," Sherlock muttered to none of us.

"Do you want to explain this to me?" Lestrade asked. "Because right now this guy's in custody."

Sherlock frowned at that, but then composed himself. "Nothing I can say will make a difference here, Inspector. You have plenty of evidence that even I can't argue with."

The entire room went silent at that, and even Anderson poked his mousy head out from whatever bush he had crawled into. Sherlock was _never_ this easy, and he never said there wasn't something that only he knew. He had been acting so out of character since the call, and come to think of it, even beforehand when he actually _asked_ if he could have some of my breakfast. Either Sherlock was pregnant, or there was something much larger going on, and both of those outcomes scared me.

* * *

"Sherlock," I said as we settled in our usually positions in the flat. My pulse hadn't slowed at all since when I first saw the security footage. "I have to tell you something, but I don't want you to think I'm crazy." he turned his head towards me, silently giving me permission to continue. "I've seen that man before, the man on the security footage. He was my surgeon in Afghanistan, and I ran into him once at Bart's. It scared the shit of me when I ran into him at Bart's, but I just chalked it up to the whole 'everyone has seven different people who look like them' thing, or the fact that I still wasn't managing my PTSD. But I've seen him before."

"I know," he replied. "I've known for some time now."

Why didn't he tell me? How did he even know? The guy's obviously a maniac who's out for Sherlock, but it didn't make sense. There was no way that he could know Sherlock and me, and there were just a lot of things that weren't making any sense.

"He's my... counterpart. I've known about Moriarty for a few years now. He first popped up when I first met John..."

Sherlock walked me through everything he knew about James Moriarty that afternoon; the cases, his organizations (web), his contacts, and I came to the conclusion that James Moriarty is what Sherlock would have been if he had decided to go the opposite direction of where he went. He told me about the time he and John were almost blown up in a darkened swimming pool (the journal entries made sense now), how he had to solve riddles of old cases to save people from being blown up, how he and Moriarty had a little chat while I was staying with my family, that Moriarty was behind the first case we worked on together, and probably how he was behind my father's death...

And now, Moriarty was back. Really back, as if the things he had been up to over the past year were just child's play. After Sherlock had finished, I just sat there for a bit, trying to take in the gravity of what he was saying. There was _so much_ information being thrown at me, but it wasn't the logical type that was pretty to digest (except math), it was the emotional type that made you want to strangle someone.

"But if Moriarty's as big and bad as you say, why did he get caught this time? A man like that doesn't get caught unless - "

"Unless he wants to."

* * *

It was a messy case that should have been clean. As soon as the media got ahold of the word that Sherlock was going to be at the trial, they exploded. Not only were they hailing it the crime of the century (Moriarty had also admitted to being behind the break-ins that happened at Pentonville Prison and Bank of England), and everyone who knew anything was talking about it, especially when Moriarty turned in a plea of not guilty.

There were literal mountains of evidence: papers, security footage, etc., that had been compiled against him, yet his lawyer never cross-examined, never tried to make an effort to defend his client. And Moriarty was nonchalant about it, sometimes smiling, sometimes wincing in a dramatic fashion just for show. And once Sherlock was on the stand, things should have been closed then and there (although he was detained for being a smart arse, which I had told him not to do).

So the next day, Sherlock stayed home while I attended the trial; Moriarty would sometimes look back at me and make a face, all for show. Today was the day that the jury deliberated, and everyone knew it was going to be a short wait to hear the "Guilty" verdict; there was some ease knowing that he'd be locked away for the rest of his life. And we were right to an extent, because the jury deliberated for five minutes before they were back, and spilling, "Not guilty."

This time when Moriarty turned around and smiled at me, it was genuine.

* * *

"Sherlock," I exclaimed when he picked up his phone. "Not guilty. They found him not guilty. He's walking." I was struggling to keep my voice under control; a sense of panic washed over me. Sherlock had told me some of the fucked up games Moriarty had tried to play in the past, and I was not prepared to play this time. However, I wasn't surprised when the line went dead on the other side.

* * *

A package was on our doorstep - a thick manila folder with red wax seal, the same kind we had gotten my father. Completely disregarding anthrax and ricin warnings, I tore it open, letting several breadcrumbs spill out all over the stoop (and silently being thankful they are just breadcrumbs). I stared at the package for a moment in confusion before folding it up so the crumbs wouldn't spill, slipping it into my coat pocket, and darting up the stairs to see Sherlock finishing a cup of tea, as if he hadn't just heard what I had told him over the phone fifteen minutes ago. Before I could say anything, there was a knock at the door I had literally just closed, but Lestrade was making his way through before I could open it.

"Case. Ambassador to America has had his children kidnapped."

"No."

"Sherlock, he's asking for you personally. In light of recent things, you are the best shot we've got." Lestrade huffs back desperately. There's no arguing here, he's not even asking, he's demanding, because we're all thinking of the same thing: Moriarty's walking free, and this is probably his doing. And in every scenario, the quickest way to find them before something worse happens, is to have Sherlock.

He stares at Lestrade and me, totally helpless at the moment, before he sets down his delicate cup and silently gets his Belstaff.

* * *

The children are in an abandoned sweet factory, eating candies that have traces of mercury in them that seeped through the painted wrappings. Donovan finds them, huddled in a damp corner with greasy hair and dirty faces, the older brother looking severely ill as his younger sister clings to him. I do an immediate check, but it's horribly apparent that the boy needs a hospital for the poisoning. He's shipped off to the nearest empty, sterile bed, and the little girl is sent to the Yard with Lestrade.

They interrogate her for a few minutes, leaving us out in the hallway to wait for Sherlock's turn.

"She is a traumatized young girl, Sherlock," I say, flipping his collar down. "And you will be kind to her, and you will be understanding, and you won't be an arse, or I swear to god, I will break your microscope and flush all of your experiments down the drain. Do you understand?" I growl, and he just rolls his eyes.

She screams when she sees him. And when I say scream, I mean _scream_. She's terrified, clinging to Donovan, pointing at Sherlock (who is looking slightly alarmed and confused), and screaming her lungs out. She doesn't stop until Lestrade drags him out, and as for Sherlock, he doesn't talk for the rest of the evening. He doesn't even want to take the same cab as me, and demands I take another one, which hurts more than it has any right to.

* * *

He arrives at Baker Street later than I do, which is just adding to the list of slightly strange behavior, and fusses with the laptop. I feel so out of the loop, like there's so much information not being passed on to me, even when I ask for it, that I don't know how to respond to his finding a hidden camera in the bookshelf. The world is moving just too fast, and I can't keep up.

As if the evening couldn't get any worse, Lestrade shows back up, but this time the lights on his car are going, and his steps are heavy and tired and dreading. He wants to take Sherlock into questioning because he's suspicious that he was involved in the kidnappings. And by that, he means Donovan and Anderson, but no matter how you try to slice it, they look _correct_. He found the children based on a few elements encased in a footprint, which is impossible in itself, but then the girl screams her head off whenever she sees him. Everything points to Sherlock.

"Look, are you coming or not?" Lestrade sighs in defeat.

"This is a game, Lestrade, and not one I am willing to play." Sherlock replies coolly, rising from his chair. "He's messing with your head, and doing a very good job of it. You can't kill an idea, can you? Not when it's implanted itself right - " he taps Lestrade's forehead. "here."

Lestrade gives up, but shoots me a warning look. They will be back, and they will have a warrant. The world literally feels as if it's fallen off its axis and we're all just spiraling out of control. I don't know _anything_, and no one is informing me, no matter how much I ask. I watch as Lestrade drives away while Sherlock continues his frantic typing at the laptop. "They'll be back." I say, hoping that he'll just tell me what the hell is happening.

"It does look suspicious," I add, provoking the subject.

Sherlock looks up at me in a fury that I had never seen until now, and shouts, "MORIARTY IS MESSING WITH YOUR HEADS, CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT'S GOING ON?!" louder than he's ever shouted before, slamming his hands on the desk so hard it rattles a decent amount, and standing out of his seat so he's leaning forward on the desk. I had never seen Sherlock lose it like this, and for some reason, it's okay. The fact that he lost it when _I_ questioned him was okay. Not Donovan, not Lestrade, but _me_.

I keep his gaze and calmly say, "No, I believe you're for real."

There's three seconds of complete silence before he's a flurry motion and shoving me into the window, kissing me violently. It's all lips and teeth, and his hands are so tight around my shoulders that I actually whine because it hurts, but the noise makes him slide them into my hair and lets his nails dig into my scalp; once I register what's going on, I push away my thoughts that tell me to stop, that kissing your flatmate ruins everything, and fist my hands in his shirtfront, pulling him closer, and he responds by simply kissing me _harder_ if that's even possible at this point. It's not romantic, it's not knee-trembling, it's not the stuff of romance novels or movies; hell, it's not even a good, but it's just a bruising, desperate kiss. His lips are softer than I thought, but mine are probably chapped, and the fact that he's actually biting them isn't helping any, and it isn't making me whimper any less.

I can feel the tiny, erratic puffs of air as he exhales through his nose against my cheek, and for some reason he's just saying, "Forgive me," over and over and _over_, like it's the last thing he'll ever say to me. And then, just as quickly as it started, it stops as I watch Sherlock squeeze his eyes shut and grapple with himself. His hands have slid down to rest on my neck so that his thumbs are curled along the shell of my ear, and he's just standing there with a pained expression. I unfold my hands from his shirt, thinking he'll try to say I wrinkled it (like I actually care), and he just _grimaces_ like I've made some incision. His hands disappear, and he takes in a few shuddering breaths before turning away from me, and retreating to his bedroom, even though every fiber in me is begging for him not to.

If he sleeps, I don't know. All I know is that a few hours later, Lestrade is back with most of the Yard, and he arrests Sherlock on suspicion of abduction. I'm frantically asking if they've got a warrant to show, but Sherlock is calm, composed, even _peaceful_ and tells me to leave it, that it's alright. Mrs. Hudson is crying, and I'm looking around at Donovan and Lestrade, who both have very different emotions. Donovan's is more of "I wish I wasn't right" while Lestrade's is "This isn't right."

"Take him downstairs," Lestrade orders.

"He's not - "

Lestrade whirls around and barks, "And don't you try to interfere, or I shall have you arrested too." with his index finger so close to my face he could probably touch it if either of us moved. It's painfully clear that we're in the same boat here. And then he marches downstairs, leaving Donovan in the room. "I warned you not to get involved the first day I met you," she says sadly just as another man I don't recognize appears. He's got a bad hair style and seventies glasses, and the sight of him makes me want to hit something.

"So is that our man, Donovan?" he asks. Donovan shifts uncomfortably.

"Yes sir, we think - we know, that's our guy." she replies.

The man looks around with an expression of disgust. "Good, good. It's always the weird ones, yeah? Bit of a weirdo, that one."

Now, when I said the man made me want to hit something, I didn't realize that it would be _him_. But when he saw my pissed off expression and said, "What are you looking at?" I just curled my fist, and decked him straight in the nose, feeling satisfied with the crunch of bone and the sudden burst of red that followed. Donovan just stared at me for half of a second before whipping out her handcuffs, and arresting me for battery of a police superintendent, and marching me downstairs so I could be pushed none-too-gently against the police car next to Sherlock.

"Joining me?" he mused.

"Apparently it's against the law to chin the superintendent." I retorted, and he smirked before reaching through an open window and messing with the radio frequencies of the earpieces the Yarders were wearing, grabbing the gun out of a discombobulated officer, and pulling me away from the car, saying something about me being his hostage as he held the gun to my head (I trusted him implicitly not to do anything to me) and demanding that everyone get down on their knees. He even fired a warning shot in the air to make his point proven.

"And what do we do now?" I asked lowly.

"We run,"

And he grabbed my hand, and we ran for our lives.

* * *

We ran from the police for ages before stumbling by a newsstand and seeing the headline article for tomorrow's readers, and it had Sherlock's name all over it: "SHERLOCK HOLMES: FAKE GENIUS". "What is this?" I asked breathlessly. "And how did..." I squinted to see the author. "Kitty Riley get all of this information?"

Again, Sherlock doesn't reply, but instead catches his breath, and then drags me to St. Bart's, where we hide out in one of Molly's labs. I ask him several questions, but he doesn't say anything, just grabs a small ball and bounces it from the floor to the cabinet and back to his hand, leaving me frustrated and willing myself not to scream. At some point I doze off, but I'm awoken by the sound of my phone, which is receiving a call from an unfamiliar number. "Hello?" I answer. It's a male voice telling me that Mrs. Hudson has fallen and broken her hip on the stairs, and she's asking for me while the ambulance comes. "Oh my god, yes, yeah, I'll be there shortly." I say, hanging up and turning to Sherlock, who hasn't moved or slept a wink, and is _still_ playing with that damn ball.

"Come on, Mrs. Hudson needs us."

"Not going."

"What? Sherlock, you adore that woman to death, and she's... Christ, Sherlock, she's dying and, and..." words were failing me, because I literally had nothing to say to him. In the past seventy-two hours, Sherlock had completely flipped my perception of reality upside down until I had no idea what was real or fake, except him. But now that he was refusing to go check on Mrs. Hudson, I had a hard time even believing in him. "You _machine_," I spat out before pulling on my coat and starting towards the door.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." he says right as my hand reaches the doorknob.

No, Sherlock. Every case we went on from the moment I had met him played through my mind; every post-case medical check up, every stitch I had sewn, every meal and nap I had forced on him, every lullaby he had played for me after a nightmare. And I couldn't help but scream 'no' in my head, because if anything, solitude did not protect us, it didn't help us. People did. "No, Sherlock," I hissed. "Friends protect people." before I stormed out of the lab, hailed the nearest cab, and fidgeted on my way to Baker Street.

I all but threw money at the cabbie, not waiting for him to make change before darting out and frantically unlocking the door, only to reveal Mrs. Hudson giving a glass of water to a handy man that was fixing a crack in the wall. She was standing, perfectly fine, and looking happy to see me. "Elizabeth," she said. "Did Sherlock get everything worked out?"

And then I realized that something very, very bad was going to happen, but I didn't know what. All I knew was that I had split from Sherlock, and that was probably exactly what Moriarty wanted. "Oh my god," I breathed in horror as I ran outside and screamed for a taxi, found one, and told them to get me to St. Bart's as fast as they could.

I was texting Sherlock, calling him, but he wasn't picking up or replying, and by the time I saw St. Bart's come into view, I had my hand on my gun, fully prepared to go in and shoot someone in the head. It was exactly then that Sherlock's name appeared on my screen, and I hastily answered. "Sherlock,"

"Elizabeth," he said as I got out of the cab and started towards the hospital.

"Sherlock, I'm here, I'm coming in." I rambled.

"No, no, just stop!" he ordered harshly, and it was severe enough that I forced my feet to stop.

"Okay, okay."

"Go back to where you were, and turn around."

I followed his instructions, looking around, and then his voice came through again. "Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

* * *

**1. This chapter was hard because it's solely from Elizabeth's POV, so we don't see all of the conversations Sherlock and Moriarty have that are so crucial to understanding everything.**

**2. I cut shit out, because I'm tired and because I can.**

**3. I'm going to edit the hell out of this tomorrow when I'm not running on 3 hours of sleep and have to be up early tomorrow.**

**4. Oops. *retreats back to cave for sleep and to hide***


	24. Things I Wish I Never Knew

_**"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."**_

_**"No. Friends protect people."**_

**And so Sherlock goes and protects his friend by being alone. You know what's happening, and I'm sorry.**

* * *

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

My eyes shot up to the skyline, Sherlock's black silhouette easily recognizable against the gray and white backdrop. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why people do things like this, why they stand frighteningly close to roof edges and speak with shaken voices. And all I could do was pray to whoever was listening that this was just another episode of Sherlock being Sherlock, even though everything was screaming that it wasn't. All I could manage back was, "Oh god."

"I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this." he continues. I can hear him crying on the other end; it's obvious by now, to me, how he is based on his voice. I know more about Sherlock Holmes than anyone living does, save Mycroft, but he can sod off. And I know what he's saying, what he's implying to me, but I can't accept it. I won't accept it. Because this isn't how everything is supposed to pan out, this isn't how everything is supposed to end. We're both silent for a few seconds, which is perfect because I don't think I could speak if he asked me to. My heart is beating so hard and fast that my entire body is shaking slightly, and my lungs are trying to keep working despite the crushing weight that I'm suddenly aware of. No, this isn't happening.

"I'm a fake."

He says it like the words weigh more than the world, but he also says it so effortlessly that it's almost convincing. But I know him. He's not a fake. He lost his cool when he thought I thought he was a fake. The newspaper article couldn't be correct, Sherlock had said so. There's nothing that can say Sherlock's a fake, because he isn't. I've seen him find missing children from footprints, and solve a murder based off of the words "Liberty" and "HOUND," I've watched him watch other people and explain to me _how_ he knows, because it's not a superpower, it's just the act of observation. No, this isn't happening.

"I want you to tell Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and Molly," he chokes out. I know he's crying because none of his other voices match up with this one, and I've never seen him cry before. Because I know him, because I live with him, because he's stitched himself into the fabric of my life until there's no definitive line between us anymore, because what's mine is his and what's his is mine, because there's too much invested here for it to be otherwise. Oh my god, this isn't happening. "In fact, I want you to tell anyone that will listen to you."

The thought of doing so makes my stomach flip five times, makes me nauseous and ill. How can he say such awful things? He's not a fake, he's not a fake, he's not a fake! "Shut up, Sherlock, shut up." I spit back. "The first time we met, the _first time we met_, you knew everything about me."

And then I can hear him smiling despite the horror, and saying, "Nobody could be that clever." which is a like a stab in the heart. Because if anyone in the universe could be clever enough, he could. It would be him.

"You could," I reply desperately, hoping that at any moment he'll just step back from the ledge. I keep waiting, but it's not happening, and I swear the sky is starting to cave in; I can see the cracks forming in the clouds as they threaten to spill over, the way it's bending before it shatters and drowns the world. It shouldn't be like this, this shouldn't be happening. And I swear, nobody should have this much trouble _breathing_, but I can't get enough oxygen in, and I'm dying, I swear to god, I think I'm dying. And then he _laughs_. He laughs; it's so short, and it's twice as sad, but it's still the best sound in the entire fucking world. He just laughs, because he's Sherlock Holmes, and of course he would laugh at a moment like this, even though his laugh really comes out as a sob.

"I researched you," he croaks. "Learned everything I could about you. It's just a trick, it's just a magic trick."

My feet start moving on their own accord - it's not a magic trick, Mycroft had told me it wasn't a magic trick, Sherlock had told me it wasn't a magic trick (hell, he had even told me magic was 'dull'), which earns me a sharp, "No, _stay where you are_, and keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

And my eyes shoot up again to see his hand outstretched, as if trying to stop me from where he was. I stopped, because for the first time he sounds desperate, like this is the only thing he's asking of me, even though we both know he's asking so much more. My lungs are lead, my bones are falling apart, and he's breaking my heart with every syllable. Please, Sherlock, don't do this. So I stretch out a hand back, hoping that somehow _this_ will change his mind, and we can go back to the flat and I'll let him keep whatever body parts in the fridge that he desires or play violin until I'm leaving for work the next morning, and I don't care that it makes me look weak or desperate, because in this moment I am, because...

"This phone call... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

The sky bursts, and crystals are falling, piercing every pore of my body. Oh my god, this isn't happening. This isn't the order of how things go. We were supposed to go back to the flat, have Mycroft fix the Kitty Riley story, not talk about the fact we kissed, deal with tension of a bit, and then snog while high on adrenaline post-case. That's how it works, right? That's how all of the movies and books go. They're all teenage fantasies and complete shit, but _that's how it's __supposed to work_. And even though the chances of that actually happening where slim-to-none to begin with, at least it was a nice thought to entertain. But feelings aside, for the love of god, Sherlock, do not do this. Do not do this.

I shake my head and turn away from the phone for a minute, trying to swallow the rock in my throat again, but it doesn't work. "Leave a note when?" I ask, because there's literally nothing else to say except, "Please." because dear god, Sherlock, please. Please, please, please.

And I hear him sniffle, and my voice breaks, because there's nothing. I should be screaming for help, but I can't. I should be running up the stairs to the rooftop and pulling him away from the ledge, but I can't. I'm frozen in place. This can't be real life, I shouldn't have this much trouble breathing, I -

"Goodbye, Elizabeth."

_No. No, no, no, no - _"SHERLOCK!" I scream to him as the line goes dead. Oh god, no this, isn't -

He's falling. _He's falling._ And I can't stop it, I can't stop him, I can't protect him, he's... "Sherlock," I breathe, and he hits the pavement seconds later. As soon as I hear the thud, my feet are propelling me towards his figure, only to have a bicyclist hit me, twisting my feet around and the asphalt greeting me just as the pavement had greeted Sherlock, and oh my god, Sherlock. Get up despite the acute pain in my temple and stumble towards the crowd that's already formed.

"Let me through," I beg brokenly, dark blood running down a crack and towards me. Oh my god, this isn't happening, this isn't real. A few people move, but they're looking at me concernedly, and I just _keep pushing_ through people, because he can't be, he just can't be. "Please, let me through, he's my... he's my friend," I repeat, feeling like there's not enough air to keep talking or walking, and then I see him there, rolled on to his side, his hair soaked with blood that's running down his face, and _oh my god, this isn't happening_.

I reach out and grab his wrist, pressing my index and middle finger deep into the flesh and waiting, waiting, _waiting_, but a throb of a pulse never shudders through, and quite suddenly hands are prying mine away from his, and the entire world just slips off of its axis for good. There was so much trying to force its way to my senses, to my brain to interpret and then allow me to feel, that I actually couldn't feel at all. But I kept trying to reach his wrist, because certainly there had to be a pulse, because he's Sherlock fucking Holmes, the madman with nicotine patches; the man whose brain had no heart and his heart had no brain, and the man who performed acts of god on a regular basis, so there _had_ to be a pulse. Why wasn't there a pulse?

Someone's pulling me away, and my legs give out so I sag into their arms, "Oh god" falling out of my mouth a few times as I watch his limp body get pulled onto a stretcher and wheeled into the hospital. His arm falls off the side, and I just watch until he's out of sight; the person who's holding me is a woman, and she's asking me things, but I can't really hear them. "Sherlock," I sigh, the woman manipulating me in her arms again so that I'm standing.

Once my body realizes it's standing, that seems to send feeling back to my legs, and I start moving towards the hospital doors so I can go in, so I can wait until the surgeon calls me back so I can wait by his bed until he wakes up, and then slap the shit out of him for putting me through something like that, for trying to do such an awful thing, for asking me to lie to the people we care most about.

* * *

The surgeon does come back to the waiting room. It only takes one look to know what's happening, because I've given that same look to plenty of people before. And it only takes one look to make me feel so much that I feel absolutely nothing at all. Lestrade breezes past me, doesn't even look or acknowledge my presence as he heads back, gathering Sherlock's clothes. Everything on him was now evidence; the Yard was scattered around the hospital, the roof, and the giant black stain that seemed to be the center of everything. I'm being dragged by officers I don't know names of from room to room, and I just sit there, because words won't come out. They're stuck in my throat, my vocal chords wrapping around my esophagus and squeezing it shut.

"We need to get your statement." Donovan says gently, sitting across from me with Sherlock's clothes in bags. Oh my god, this _is_ happening, and there's absolutely nothing I can do to change it. Oh my god. Oh my god. "I've been told I can't leave until I get it, so..."

She sounds exactly the same, as if we aren't in the situation we're in. And that's good, I suppose. Someone had to keep going, had to just keep everything moving even though everything should just implode and not exist. Sally Donovan was someone who could keep going.

"He opened his arms, and he fell." I mutter, eyes trained on the scarf and coat that were in plastic bags no more than a meter away. "He wanted you to know that... that he was a fake." I add as I find her gaze, even though it feels like weights are crushing my ribs and threatening to pull me under some invisible current that will take me out to sea and drown me. The words feel slimy, because they're wrong, because saying these things isn't natural. But I force them out anyway, because that's me, and that's what I do. I carry out people's last wishes. I did it for John, and now I'm back at square one, doing it for Sherlock.

Donovan blinks a few times, and then says, "Okay. Lestrade will be in shortly to ask a few more things." as she rises from the table, illegible handwriting staining the paper. She leaves the statement and clothes on the table.

* * *

I don't go to the funeral. I don't really leave the flat for a few days until my mother shows up, puts me in the shower, forces food into my mouth, and then walks me to a small office for the first of many therapy sessions to come. The session ends with me in tears, trying to say the words, "Sherlock Holmes is dead," but nothing seems to come out.

* * *

When I finally go to his grave, there's nothing that I want to say. So I stand there for a few awkward minutes, trying to recite the bones in the human body from memory, starting from the toes. The trees just out from his grave rustle slightly, and I look up to see nothing there; just branches swinging because of wind, then. I subconsciously fiddle with the locket, "One could do worse than be a swinger of birches" running through my head again and again.

"You told me once that you weren't a hero," I blurted out. "There were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this: you were the best man, the most human human being I've ever known, and no one can ever convince me that you told me a lie. So there." I grind out, clenching my fists as my eyes glare at the swinging trees. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But there's one more thing, Sherlock, one more miracle just for me. Don't be... dead."

It's the first time I've said it, and my throat closes up, but I keep letting words come out. "Please, will you do that, just for me? Just for me, of all people? Just stop this. Stop it. Please."

But there's never a reply, save the tree branch that dances even though there's no wind.

* * *

**Of all the chapters I've put up (and the several that will come), this one was most personal, because I had to draw heavily from personal experiences which left me a mental mess. There are probably typos and it's probably pretty dry.**


End file.
